Darkly Dreaming Harry
by LineApe
Summary: Five minutes pass before the neighbors decide to call triple nine; another ten before the fire-engine arrives. The Dursleys were dead long before that. Psychopath!Intelligent!Harry.
1. Prologue

Prologue

* * *

Cold today. Unusually cold. People usually say that cold weather is depressing, but you don't get that. Cold is great. You don't sweat nearly as much in the cold. Not like summer.

Aunt Petunia always works you the hardest at summer. "Freaks like you don't deserve to laze about in the summer," she always says.

Cold days like today make you wish that there was something to keep you warm. Something warm like a fire. Kind of like the fire you're lighting at the moment. Vernon always complains about his old sofa. If you weren't such a drain on their finances they could afford a _new_ one by now!

You light one of the Pig's cigarettes and carefully place it between two of the cushions. Have to make it look like a tragic accident you see.

The alarms won't go off; not now, and not even when the house is reduced to a pile of ash. You've recently taken up cooking, and unfortunately, you have a tendency to burn things. Aunt thought that it wouldn't seem _'normal'_ if the fire alarm went off every day, so she took the batteries out of the alarm.

It would be her fingerprints on the battery sitting in a nearby drawer. Given that she will be dead soon, you don't think they will feel the need to prosecute her.

She'll be dead, the Pig will be dead, and even Pig Jr. will be dead.

You feel nothing about their impending deaths, and why would you? You've never felt anything your whole life, so why start now? People talk about feeling happy or sad; that doesn't describe you.

All you've ever felt in your entire life is either anger or greed.

At a young age you discovered you were different. When others around you laughed or smiled you wondered why. When you didn't react correctly they looked at you funny. So you learned to laugh when needed, and to smile at all the right times.

Crying still eludes you however. You'll get there though.

You crawl in your 'room' and latch the lock from the inside. It was a difficult skill to pick up. Two weeks of endless nights learning how to pick a lock. Good thing you watched that show on the telly, or you may have never learned that a lock _could_ be picked! Now you're locked in and that is exactly what you need. You need an alibi. "I was locked in my 'room'" is a good one. When it starts to get hot and smoky you'll kick the door until the latch breaks. Then you'll run outside and wait for the firemen.

That's the plan anyways. Now just to wait.

Lots of time to wait and think when you've been locked in your 'room'. Eight years of long nights thinking about anything at all.

You think about that wallet you stole a few years back. It's currently hidden outside under a flowerpot with a false bottom. A trophy. One of many. Vernon was not too happy when you stole his wallet. He didn't know it was you, but the burden of proof is not very difficult to overcome in this household. A sound thrashing was given that day. One of many. You didn't even need the wallet or the money. It was just a little adventure. It's fun to steal and you've been at it for years.

Stealing is fun, but lying is just _so_ much better. When you don't feel anything it is very easy to keep a straight face while spinning falsehoods. Misdirection is the name of the game, and you're the best in the business.

You started to lie and steal to get things. Things you were denied. Things to survive. Food. Water. Then it grew to things you wanted. Toys. Books. Then you lied and stole just for the experience.

You hear the neighbor's dog yapping. Their first dog fit a tragic end. Small little thing it was. Yapped all the time; day and night. This was back in the day when you were still attempting to make your guardians love you. They kept complaining about it so you decided to get rid of it. It squirmed for a good little while when you stuffed its head in the bucket of water.

Sadly, it didn't make your relatives love you. Shame that.

They have a new dog now, and it doesn't like you very much. It can probably smell it's predecessor all over you. It's normally very quiet; that means it's time. It can smell the smoke and so can you.

You prep your leg, and like a gun you shoot your leg out and hit the lock dead on. First hit earns you a loud crack but no broken lock, and so you give it another shot.

Good.

Staying low to the floor like they teach you in school, you creep down the hallway and make your way to the door.

Taking a moment to collect yourself, you get into character. Frantic and terrified nine year old coming right up. You sprint out the front door screaming at the top of your lungs, "Fire! Fire! Someone call the fire department!"

Lights shoot on all the way up and down the block; in less than a minute people started pouring out their doors to get a look. Nosy bastards want to see the fire for a bit before they call the fire department.

Five minutes pass before the first people decide to call triple nine, another ten before the fire-engine arrives.

The Dursleys were dead long before that.

* * *

AN: The idea popped into my head a little while ago and I decided to run with it.

Harry in this story is a psychopath. He feels no emotions whatsoever. No guilt. He's based on the character Dexter from the showtime program of the same name. I have not read the Dexter books so expect no references to that material. Also, one does not need to know anything about Dexter to read this.

After reading over jbern's 'bungle in the jungle' again, I decided to write my own story from a second person perspective. All of Harry's rambling thoughts will be open to you as he tries to find a place in a new world.

This story will be of epic length.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter one

* * *

You sit and wait. People are everywhere; running around trying to put out the fire. Useless gesture that is; no one will be coming out alive after twenty minutes in _that_ blazing inferno.

There's a rather cold breeze. If you could do so without looking like a complete asshole, you'd be warming your hands by the fire. That would probably be frowned upon, but you left the house in your sleeping clothes, and it was _cold_.

You're dressed in only a thin pair of pajama bottoms and with no top. One of your neighbors had the decency to give you a blanket though.

Sure, ignore the kid when he is being beaten and abused, but when he's shivering in the cold they become decent people.

"Poor kid, must be in shock," a voice says.

Shock? Not hardly. Now would be a good time to cry. Got to work on that. Oh well, shock will have to do.

You feel a hand on your shoulder and turn to see a police officer looking down at you.

"Hey son, how are you holding up?" he asked. A couple of other people come to gather near you.

You put on a sad face and look at the ground. If you're looking down, then they can't see your eyes. "Fine sir," you squeak out.

"I'm sorry son, but I don't think there is anyone else coming out from there."

No shit Sherlock. What other completely obvious statement is he going to say next? The sky is blue? NOOOO!

You wipe your hand across your eyes. If you can't cry, then make it look like you're trying not to. Wipe those nonexistent tears away! Be brave!

As you let your arm down, so drifts the edge of your blanket. The bruises covering your upper torso are open for the world to see. Nothing on your arms, but your chest is covered from top to bottom in what appears to be one massive bruise. They see this and give each other some sideways glances.

A bruised body with no bruises on the arms typically raises red flags with adults you've heard. Abusers typically only do so in situations where they won't get caught, and the Dursleys were always careful to strike only in non-visible areas. Not _'normal'_ to abuse family you see, and the Dursleys were nothing if not 'normal'. Well, on the outside anyways…

The police officer asks what happened and you give him a good story. You were sleeping when you were awoken by the barking of the dog. Smelling the smoke you knew that you needed to get out, but you were locked in your room. You try to sound terrified, so you shake a little as you speak. Their buying it too; is that a tear on one of their faces?

The police want to know why you were locked in your room.

You tell them that they always lock you in. Can't have your _'freakishness'_ contaminating them in their sleep, right?

So, you kick open your 'bedroom' door and run like hell.

They ask how a little kid like you could kick open a door, so you tell them just exactly what your 'room' was; little wooden cupboards don't have very sturdy doors.

Just because you can't feel emotions doesn't mean that you can't tell what others are feeling. You're actually pretty good at that; it was pretty useful to know when Vernon was angry, and these people are angry.

Very angry.

Not at you of course, but at a pair of charred corpses sitting in a burnt house.

A few neighbors heard your story. They look horrified. The Dursleys kept their nephew in a closet?

Whats worse is that they believed everything the Dursleys said about you; true and false. They won't have any friends posthumously, that's for sure.

They ask where the bruises came from.

You ask what difference it makes. If they're dead it doesn't matter, right?

They still want to know and so you eagerly oblige their curiosity. Lies are fun. By the time you're done your story they see the Durselys as the epitome of all evil. To punch a child a dozen times in the chest for having better exam scores than their own child? Despicable! Of course the bruises had nothing do with Vernon _this_ time, but whom would tell? Probably not Vernon, he's dead, and not in much of a state to communicate. Likely not Dudley – who beat you black and blue – he's dead too. Definitely not Dudder's little gang; they, who kicked and punched you repeatedly once Dudley had grown tired. Would they defend a dead man's honor at the expense of their own? Not hardly. Surely not _you_, the one who angered Dudley in the first place. Tripping him in class always makes Dudley look like an idiot, and that's a good thing in your book.

Right, made not makes. Dudley's not around any more.

No, Vernon would be known in death as an abuser.

...And a child molester.

One last parting shot for a right bastard. He tells the whole block that you're a thief and a liar so you tell everyone who will listen that he likes to feel up little boys. Fair trade. Well, he was telling the truth about the thievery and lies, but he was still a bastard. You use 'was' – past tense – because you notice they've stopped the fire, and with the efforts of three bulky fire-fighters they are struggling to lift the pig out the front door.

You look away as if in pain to see a family member that way. Oh the horror! The man who made every single day of your life a living hell is dead. Oh how sad that makes you. Wait, you don't feel sad... Right!.

Burn in hell you fat fuck. Same to you 'Aunt', you let him do whatever he wanted.

A new voice comes and tells you that you don't need to see this, and she guides you to an ambulance. A few tests show you to be without any smoke or fire related injuries. The Dursleys didn't feed you much, but you weren't malnourished. Lock picking and midnight snacks made up for any missed meals.

The same person guides you to a car. She tells you that they will find you a nice family to stay with for now.

"An orphanage?" You ask.

"No," She said, "Big orphanages are not used very much anymore."

"Then where?"

"We typically send children to a foster home with a handful of kids, and place them on an adoption list."

So for all the times that Vernon threatened you with an orphanage, he was obviously either an idiot or speaking out his ass.

"Normally we have some difficulty placing children from your kind of situation, but you seem to be a nice boy. I'm sure we'll have no trouble finding you a loving home," she said in a soothing tone.

Nice boy, right.

* * *

A/N:

BTW,

GO CANADA GO!

...that is all.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter two

* * *

Your foster parents are nice. Well, as nice as a person who gets paid to take care of you can possibly be. A little annoying from time to time, but they give you space. That's good.

The same can't be said for the other kids at the foster home.

Ryan's an asshole, but after a week sharing a room with him you got him figured out.

Bully.

Not like Dudders, but similar.

Tragic story really; father lost his job and started to drink. Prick knocked him and his mum around a bit. That stopped when his mum put a knife in his throat.

With his mum sharing a jail-cell with a big fat dyke, and Ryan without any relatives, he became the crown's responsibility.

Hardened by his father's abuse, and ashamed of his mother's extreme overreaction, he felt a need to let off steam. So he became a bully.

He doesn't do anything too serious: knock the other kids down, steal lunch money; that kind of thing, but when he tried to push you around you decided to neuter him before he became too much of an issue.

You had just the thing to set him straight. You see, Every night before bed Ryan would sit and look at a stack of pictures. With a little cunning you snuck into the room while it was unoccupied and took a peak.

Family photos: His mum and dad smiling, all three of them at a beach, his first day at school. How quaint, he missed his family.

* * *

That night, after walking through the door well past curfew, Ryan strolled over to his dresser and looked for his packet of photos. While searching through his drawers, Ryan rapidly grew panicked.

His photos were missing.

He frantically glanced around the room, eyes darting from one area to another, his eyes finally landing on his bed. On his pillow lay a small mound of ash and atop that sat three heads, cutout from the photos.

He swiftly turned and sent a vicious look directly at you.

You return his stare, and a sneer graces your lips.

He slowly advances to your side of the room.

"Lay another hand on me and the rest of your pictures meet the same fate."

He stopped. His livid look turned to panic. He suddenly turned, and ran from the room. Probably to get one of their caretakers.

With haste, you spring up from the bed and hurry towards his ash covered pillow. Carefully you remove his pillowcase, folding it over itself to seal the ashes inside. Quickly you replace the case with a spare you snagged from the linen closet earlier in the day.

After stashing the evidence between your mattress and box spring, you sit on your bed and grab a book to look busy.

Moments later Ryan and Mr. Teller barge into the room

"Where is this pile of ash?"

"Right on the pillowcase! That bastard Potter burned the only pictures I have of my parents!"

"That's news to me," you interject.

"Potter, you bloody wanker! Fuck off!"

"I don't see what he's talking about, why do you keep on trying to get me into trouble Ryan?" you ask.

"The ashes are right fucking… there…" he said, voice trailing off as he turned to the clean pillowcase, "It was there!"

"Seriously Ryan, you wake me up in the middle of the night with this stupid story…" Mr. Teller said, "Go to bed, we'll talk about your punishment in the morning."

"But... but..." Ryan stammered.

"_Now_, Ryan!" the man said in a strong tone of voice.

"O-okay" Ryan muttered before tucking himself into his bed.

Mr. Teller turned to you and said, "Sorry about this Harry, we've been having problems with Ryan from the beginning."

"It's okay sir, he's clearly still sad about his parents. I'm sure he'll find the rest of his photos if he just cools off and looks," you reply, sending a look to your roommate. By reading between the lines and with the little look he might catch the hidden message: 'Back off, and you might just get a couple of your pictures back'.

From the look in his eye you can see that he's figured it out.

After Mr. Teller closes the door you look Ryan dead in the eyes.

"Don't fuck with me," you say, before turning on your back.

He won't be bothering you again.

* * *

Nearly a year passes. For some bizarre reason you can't seem to maintain a roommate for very long. Can't imagine why…

The adults seem to think you're still grieving the loss of your relatives; pushing others away in your depression. That's why you're sitting here with the therapist.

"How do you feel about your relatives deaths?" she asks. Again. For the _millionth_ time.

How do I feel? Good question. Do you go with: 'I don't feel anything at all?' Hmmm… that might not go over well.

Eh, go for pity, that works well most of the time.

"I um… I didn't like them, but they were my family, you know?"

"I understand. I really do. Do you still think about them at all?"

Yes, their pained screams fuel some of your best fantasies.

"I try not to ma'am…"

"Ah, but you see, by actively trying not to think of them, you are in fact still thinking about them."

Right. 'Cause that makes a whole lot of sense. Fucking shrinks don't know shit.

"...Right." you reply.

"You can't just keep pushing your feelings away Harry! You can't just push everyone that you meet away!"

Yeah, not exactly why I keep getting new bunk mates.

"But… it just… I don't want to think about it… the way they died…" you say, as a tear dribbles down your cheek

And the Bafta goes to… Harry-fucking-Potter. You fixed that stupid 'crying' issue ages ago.

As you fall into deep sobs, your mind drifts to your drama teacher at school; she says you're a prodigy. Best actor she's ever taught.

With your acting ability and a cute face you've already done a guest spot on Coronation Street. That's in addition to the dozen commercials you've starred in.

It's good for some pocket change. Not that you need any spare change, the Tellers are so bloody _trusting_. They don't notice very often when a twenty pound note goes missing, and when they do _you're_ never suspected. You're a _good_ boy after all.

You feel a hand on your back. She's trying to comfort you! Ha!

Okay, time to turn down the water works.

Mrs. Field may try to claim that she taught you how to act, but in reality these therapy sessions work better than a dozen drama classes.

You know you're a monster, and you know that these sessions are only making you into a _smarter_ monster. That's why your milking them for all that they've got.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter three

* * *

A year passes, and still you play your games.

Poisoning the class hamster before sending him off to a student you dislike.

Running a set of keys over every car in the teacher's parking lot. Thousands of pounds worth of damage that did. They even installed cameras catch a repeat offender! Why in hell would you do it again? Variety is key. Ha! Key...

Then of course there is your crown jewel. Well, crown jewel of the past year at least; nothing tops burning the Dursleys alive... Anyways!

A few months back you had a teacher fired for inappropriately touching a fellow student. The kid was far too shy to come forward, but your testimony was enough. It worked out well on Vernon, so you decided to run the same play.

Of course, in reality all the teacher really did was give you a bad grade on a stupid painting in art class.

Your skill-set may be multifaceted, but your abilities with a brush and canvas leave much to be desired. It won't keep you up at night though; when will you ever need to paint again in your entire life?

Stupid art class...

Anyways, aside your little diversions, it was a rather dull year.

Well, it was that is, until you found yourself in face to face (or beak perhaps?) with a strange owl; it keeps extending its leg to you, encouraging you to grab a letter.

Who the hell sends a letter with an owl? That must be the most inefficient method of post ever devised. Probably half of the letters end up in a swamp somewhere.

Stamps and mailmen not good enough?

With a huff, you grab the letter and read the label.

Harry Potter,

Third from largest bedroom,

#16 Willowbrook drive.

Wow, that's not disturbing at all. What, did they have someone come in and measure the rooms to see how to label it?

Witchcraft and wizardry?

Either this is some person's strange idea of a joke – which is doubtful because seriously, who would take the time to train an owl for a little joke like this? – or there is a group of insane devil-worshipers who have targeted you for ritual sacrifice.

Probably picked you because of that guest spot on Doctor Who with the crazy African voodoo plot-line; you've been catching grief from that for over two years now.

Episode was so bad that it's constantly cited as the reason for the show's cancellation.

You did alright, but the writers _completely_ lost the plot.

Last time you let your agent talk you into a stupid role like that. That's for sure.

Well, there is also the possibility that you are in fact a wizard, and that you can do magic and stuff.

Perhaps, if you could find anything other than extreme human suffering amusing, then you might have just laughed out-loud at the absurdity of the idea.

Well, the owl isn't going away; might as well send the insane cult people a reply before you head off and hire a team of body guards or something. Maybe you should notify the police too?

* * *

To whomever it may concern:

No, I would not like to be used for a ritual sacrifice to summon a demon or demi-god. Perhaps you could target another more naïve child the next time you start recruitment for your cult?

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

PS: I have notified the police to this strange threat.

* * *

You attach the letter, and watch the bird fly away.

I guess every celebrity gets his weirdo stalkers?

* * *

The pedophile magician club just won't leave you alone.

After the first letter there was another. When you threw it in the rubbish bin, another came not minutes later.

Persistent little buggers arn't they?

Only after every square inch of your room is covered in owls and their droppings do you call the police, and they're as baffled as you.

Who trains dozens of owls to recruit a kid into a cult?

There _must _be an easier way! The church has been doing it for centuries, why not stick to what works?

* * *

Its a strange way to wake up; a giant kicks in your door, and offers you a birthday cake.

Made all the stranger by the fact that your door is unlocked, and he decided to kick it down anyways.

When he introduces himself as one of the cultists, you reach under your pillow and pull out your knife.

You have the knife for self defense. _Really._

"The letters weren't enough?" you yell, "You decide to actually kidnap me?"

"Kidnap?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused, "Why would I want to kidnap 'ya 'arry?"

Huh, so they're really good at brainwashing. Well, if you need to fight your way out it'll be a tad difficult; the man is slouching down even with your nine foot ceilings!

Best to reason with the big oaf.

"I do not want to join you cult, sir," you say, "Please leave me in peace."

"A cult! Your a wizard 'arry!" he said, "And a damn good one I'd wager!"

So he really believes...

"Right, um, well, I don't want to be a human sacrifice for your pagan gods either."

"Pagan gods...? There ain't no pagan gods 'er human sacrifices at 'ogwarts 'arry."

"Well, that's a relief, I was worried you would shiv me and have me bleed out over a ritual circle drawn with horse manure or something."

"Blimey 'arry! What the muggles at this place been tellin' ya 'bout magic anyways! Wait, where exactly are we?"

"A foster home."

"Why are we in a foster home?"

"Because I live here."

"What happened to the ruttin' Durselys then?"

"Died in a fire."

"Right, so um... you live here?"

"Yes."

And here comes the awkward pause.

"...Harry Potter lives in a foster home?"

"Yes, it normally surprises people to learn that a celebrity like myself is a ward of the crown."

"Right. Well... anyways, 'ogwarts is where your parents did their schoolin'!"

"Why would that matter in any way whatsoever?"

"It's the best school for magic in the world!"

"Here comes the magic stuff again..."

"Magic is real 'arry! You're a wizard, and with a little trainin' you could be doin' some magic too!"

"Right, so if magic is real, then do some."

"Well, the thing is 'arry, I ain't supposed to be doin' no magic..."

"Well that's awfully convenient..."

"See I got expelled from 'ogwarts and they snapped me wand right in half..."

"Right, so they send someone to explain magic to me who in fact can not actually _do_ magic."

"I kept all the pieces though! I can still do a bit of magic, but don't be tellin' no one!"

After saying this, you see the man pull out a pink umbrella. He looks around for a moment before he sets his eyes on your pack of matches.

Shit! You're not supposed to have those!

The man pulled a single match out and pointed the umbrella at it.

"Watch closely."

Before your eyes you see the match turn gray and slightly pointy.

The big oaf looks at you, radiating a sense of accomplishment.

"So, as a wizard, I'll be able to... turn a match gray and make it pointy?"

"Its been a while since I've been doin' any magic, it was suppos' to turn into a pin."

"That doesn't sound very impressive."

"Right, well, let me give 'er another try."

"If this bed were a seat, then I would be at the edge of it, sir."

The man, who was _clearly_ mentally retarded, completely missed your sarcasm and readied himself for another attempt.

The match turned gray and pointy again, but this time it was a little bit shiny.

Again he looks at you radiating a sense of accomplishment, and this time he has a smug little grin on his face. You could totally imagine he was thinking something along the lines of 'Ha! told ya so!'

Right. Be proud moron.

"So, is this the full extent of what one using magic is capable of?"

"Huh?"

Right, retarded, use smaller words.

"What else can a wizard do?"

"Lots 'o things 'arry!"

"Such as?"

"Well, you can be doin' some transfiguration like I just showed ya"

"Not really useful, but go on."

"There's charms, 'n potions, 'n runes."

"I do alright with my charms, the other two could however prove useful."

"Then there's herbology and 'o course 'deres Defence against the dark arts..."

Wait a tic... "Dark arts?"

"Yeah, a dark wizard can use the dark arts 'n can kill ya with a single spell."

"...They can, can they?"

"Oh yeah, worst of all they could use one of tha' unforgiveables!"

"Unforgiveables?"

"The Killing curse will kill anyone who gets hit just like tha'! The Imperius will allow a dark wizard to make a wizard do anything he wants, 'yeh could even make someone kill his own parents!. Then there's the Cruciatus; it causes pain so ruttin' bad that it feels like thousands of knives are getting' jammed in ya over 'n over!"

"Thousands of knives... I could learn this as Hogwarts?"

"Sure 'arry! Defending yourself against dark wizards is part of every wizard's learnin'."

"Right so, where do we go now?"

"Diagon Alley!"

* * *

AN: a reviewer, blue, pointed out that this character is very different from dexter, and I wholeheartedly agree.

Without a strong father character like dexter had, Harry was without an outlet for his 'dark passenger' as it were.

This is how i would envision a dexter-like character without a 'code of harry'

Perhaps my harry is more like Patrick Bateman of 'american psycho' fame. Actually, looking back, and also looking forward to what I have planned, perhaps Harry is far more like Patrick Bateman than Dexter.

For those of you who have never seen or read either Dexter or American Psycho, then I strongly suggest you give them a try; they're both great entertainment, but they also give great insight into the workings of the minds of psychopaths.

-Lineape


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter four

* * *

The second you walk through the brick wall you wonder what the fuck is going on.

Whoever said time travel was impossible had obviously never taken a walk through Diagon Alley.

You pass a shop selling quills and parchment.

QUILLS!

You wonder if there are rules against pens at Hogwarts, because there is no way in _hell_ you are going to use a fucking quill.

Parchment? For Christ sake, after your trip here you are going to need to make a trip to a muggle shop and stock up on some stationary supplies.

Parchment... That's just silly.

This Hagrid bloke seems quite set on this Gringotts place.

As you walk through the door, you see all these ugly little creatures running around like chickens with their heads caught off.

Rather reminds you of that week you spent at a farm in preparation for that movie. The menial tasks were annoying and reminded you of your stay with your relatives - god rest their souls - but you also had the chance to kill hundreds of chickens during your stay.

Best week _**ever**_.

You ask Hagrid what those foul creatures are.

Goblins? Whoa, that's messed up; aren't they supposed to be like warriors or something? Why are they in charge of a bank?

Just another thing to look into.

The gigantic man doesn't seem too fond of them.

While the big lout argues with a teller, you take the place in.

Its decorated in an old style; old but classy. Kind of like that upscale house in that film you did. Decent cast in that one, but the director didn't know his head from his ass. That was set in what, the seventeenth century?

Ah, the big guy is finished, good.

They pull you along and push you into a cart.

* * *

"'arry, this is yer parent's vault."

"...Eh?"

"You din't think they left ya with nothin', did ya 'arry?"

"So I've had this giant pile of gold sitting here for the last decade, and no one saw fit to notify me?"

"Well, err, Dumbledore said..."

"Right, so how do I inventory how much is in here, and how to I move it into my muggle bank accounts? Hopefully I don't have to pay too much in taxes on this..."

"Gingotts is the safest place to be keepin' all your gold 'arry!"

"Better the devil you know then the devil you don't; I'll stick to my bank, thank you."

"I ain't so sure Dumbledore will like this..."

"Dumbledore will be my headmaster?"

"Yes."

"Why would he have any say in what I do with my money?"

"Well, he wouldn't but still Dumbledore-"

He's like a broken record, only more annoying.

"I don't care about Dumbledore, so let's move on; I still need my school supplies. How much will I need to get my supplies?"

"Jus' grab a big ol' sack o' the gold ones, at'll do."

Retarded and bad at math, you would pity him if you cared. Sadly, the man is not an idiot savant as you had hoped; that was just about the only thing in your mind that he could have had going for him, and now even that's been proven false.

Taking his advice however, you 'grab a big ol' sack o' the gold ones'.

God, some people are stupid.

* * *

The scene at the other vault was quite strange.

The immense idiot trying to be inconspicuous was almost laughable in the lobby, and even now, he is still trying to be discrete - in an empty mineshaft!

Moron.

He picked up the 'you-know-what' from 'you-know-where'.

Walking out the lobby, he probably couldn't stand out any more If he tried.

Hopefully, the thing wasn't too important; you don't want to get mugged or something on the way back home.

Perhaps it's a potion to restore the moron's brain? No, it's very doubtful that magic of that caliber exists. You probably can't restore something that never existed in the first place anyways.

* * *

Getting fitted for your dress was amusing. The people called them 'robes,' but you know a dress when you see one.

You ask if they have any less... girly... attire for this school.

No they don't.

Well, shit.

The other boy getting fitted next to you is rather rude until you introduce yourself.

"Harry Potter," you say.

"Harry... _**The**_ Harry Potter?

"Yes."

It's nice that even wizards get the BBC.

"Merlin I've heard all about you! I mean I heard that you-"

"Don't believe everything you read about me; half of what they put in those rags is misquoted, and the other half they just make up."

"Wow, I heard that you would be in my year, but..."

Being famous rocks most of the time, but the overly gushing fans are just so pathetic.

"Well I'm off, need to get a wand and all that you see."

"Okay, um, do you think that I could, you know..."

Oh, for Merlin's sake… you're a wizard now, gotta try talking like them. Seems silly to cry out to Merlin - who was just another wizard - whenever something notable happens.

You pull out a pad of paper and a pen.

"Who should I make this out to?"

"Oh, um, Draco Malfoy."

To Draco Malfoy, you pathetic loser; get a life. Wait, can't write that, happy fans are better than angry fans.

To Draco Malfoy, perhaps we'll meet at Hogwarts in our manly dresses?

-Harry Potter

You hand him the note and he laughs.

* * *

This wand-finding thing is clearly not an exact science, or if it is, then this Olliviander guy failed miserably at wand-finding school.

Two dozen missed attempts thus far.

The guy is creepy too. Really creepy.

Seriously, who memorizes every product they have ever sold and every person they ever sold that product _to_?

Does he keep a detailed list on wands and their masters, spend every waking moment memorizing said list, and then every night before bed masturbate to the names and wand types?

Ohhh... Holly with dragon heart-string... Thirteen inches… Springy…

Okay, that thought needs to stop right there.

Man, what is taking the guy so long? He says he'll look in the back for a minute, and here ten minutes later, you're still waiting.

Terrible service at this place, if you had your druthers you'd burn the place to the ground. Probably make a pretty fire with all the different kinds of wood and weird magical creature parts.

Are there any other wand shops? This guy fails at life.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear! Here he comes now.

If he had been a couple of minutes later, you might have been tempted to see if there are magical firefighters.

Oh well, maybe another day.

"Well?" You ask.

"Let's try this one shall we?" he says as he hands you another wand. "You see, this wand is very special because it has a –"

You drown out his little story about the wand and give it a wave.

Nothing.

For the love of God…

"Are there any other wand shops in the area?"

"Well... um... I suppose there is Octavius Nott's down in Knockturn Alley but..."

The man kept talking, but you were already on your way out the door.

With the way he runs his shop, it's a wonder the man is still in business.

* * *

Hagrid warned you away from here, but given that the man is an idiot, his opinion means absolutely nothing.

Your search for the dark arts starts now.

You don't have much to go on aside some spells called the 'unforgiveables', and you know that isn't much. You also know that no criminal openly advertises their criminal activity.

So where does one go to find the black market here in Knockturn Alley?

You clearly can't just ask someone.

Who says there aren't any magical bobbies working undercover?

Excuse me sir, where would one look for instructions on how to use dark magic? I only want to be able to kill someone with a spell, that's all. Illegal? Come now, do we really need the cuffs? Ack! Not so tight!

That's how that would go.

No, it won't be out in the open, and you can't ask anyone.

Well, then this will just be a little scouting mission.

Get your wand, and get out. In the time between the two, you can keep your eyes open, and hope for the best.

Ah, there it is. Nott Wands.

Small little shop. Doesn't look any bigger than the other shop.

If they don't have a wand for you, then this place might just have to burn as well.

"Welcome! I'm Octavius Nott, how can I be of service today?"

Friendly at least.

"I'm in need of a wand. Olliviander couldn't find me one."

"So he sent you here? That's surprising; normally if the old coot has a difficult customer he gives you a 'best fit' and that's that."

"Well, he didn't send me here. I walked out. Terrible service."

"Oh?"

"The man went to the back to find me a wand and it took him over ten minutes to come back."

"Perhaps he took a nap? He is rather old after all."

"Probably. So can you find me a wand?"

"Well, unlike Olliviander, if I can't find you a match at my shop then I will personally pay for a round trip portkey to Gregorovitch's shop in Austria in order to get you your wand. Wands are serious business you know, and no wizard should be without his proper wand."

Much better.

"Okay, so where do we start?"

"Well, come on closer, I need to get a hold on what kind of wizard you are."

"Right."

You walk closer.

"Are you… Harry Potter! My word, Harry Potter in my shop! My word, not in a million years did I think _you_ would be coming to my shop for a wand."

Wow, lots of fans here. Wizards love their cinema.

"People have been shocked to see me all day, what's one more. So about that wand?"

"Oh yes, let's find you your wand."

* * *

Didn't need the portkey after all. Whatever that is.

You also won't be burning down the place. Olliviander's yes, Nott's no.

It was made of yew, was eleven inches long, had a unicorn hair as its core, and was described as 'unyielding'.

Very strange. Strange that a monster like you has in his wand what Nott said was the hair of such an _innocent_ creature.

Is that what they call irony?

* * *

You make it back to Diagon Alley empty handed as far as the dark arts are concerned.

No matter, you can come back later and spend more time there without the escort.

The idiot found you; oh look, a birthday gift.

An owl? Wow, you are totally not the right person to give a pet to.

If it makes too much noise, then you'll wring it's neck, or maybe something a tad more creative.

Hedwig, what a silly name.

* * *

Books and books. Lots and lots of books.

Ah, the fan from earlier is coming over to you. Remember to smile and play nice.

"Ah Draco, getting your books I see."

"Yeah, I already have all the good ones at home, but I still need my school texts."

"I need to pick them up myself. Not a whole lot of selection on some subjects though."

"Yeah, it's all that stupid stuff the ministry tries to ram down your throat. Nothing interesting at all."

"Yeah." Oh, what the hell. "Nothing on the dark arts at all. I would have liked to know what all the fuss was about."

"I know right! All that they have is that sissy stuff about 'defense'!"

Ah, a kindred spirit.

"Not saying that I want to do any dark arts myself, but what if a dark wizard goes after me? I would like to know what spells he could be sending at me beforehand, know what I mean?"

"Absolutely. With all the silly laws the ministry have passed recently you can't even get the books unless you know who to talk to... if you know what I mean. Well, unless you own them already of course."

Well shit.

"I guess I'm just going to have to die then huh?"

"Talk to me when we're at Hogwarts and I'll see what we can do."

Excellent.

"I might just do that."

"I have to go, my father is calling me over with his eyes."

"See you at Hogwarts, and don't forget your dress."

* * *

When you get back 'home' it's late.

What a strange day, and you can't imagine them getting much less strange in the future.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter five

* * *

Kings cross. What a strange place to start your journey into a world of magic.

From what you've read, there are numerous methods of magical travel; so why take a train, of all things, all the way to Scotland?

If one were to live in Scotland already, it would probably be a pretty big inconvenience. Travel down to London, then travel back by a slow train. What a waste of time that would be.

Maybe if you live near the school you can just walk or something?

It's a good thing you don't have any film or telly roles lined up for the year; you can't exactly film anything during the school year now eh?

Ah well, there's always the summer.

You take a look around.

Lots of people here.

Muggles. Lots of muggles; that's what wizards call normal folk.

You can't spot any witches or wizards.

That blows.

You look at your ticket.

Platform nine and three quarters?

Do they try to make things as difficult as humanly possible?

They told you the date and time of the train's departure, but they never told you where.

Sure, they said Kings Cross, but they never told you how to find the fucking platform!

Fuck, why didn't you look at the ticket earlier? You could have asked someone from the alley about the train on one of your trips.

Well, you didn't look at the ticket because you didn't expect something like _this_.

Fuck, what a joke!

Now you're going to miss a train because they didn't tell you how to get on the bloody thing.

And for the love of God, will that fat cow just _shut up_?

Wait, what? Muggles? The woman – or bovine, you can't be sure – is talking about magic out in the open? Aren't there laws against that kind of thing?

Maybe they'll arrest her.

Maybe they'll give her the death penalty.

Maybe they'll let you watch.

Hmm... what do they do for magical executions?

Something to look into. Hopefully its gruesome.

She has kids with her. Good, that means that while she isn't much to look at – unless one wishes to vomit, or is into bestiality with cows – at least the ugly heifer likely knows how to get on the train.

Just need to watch and see what they do.

Wow, that cow's shrill voice sure grates on the nerves. Don't cows normally have a low 'moo' sound?

Five kids? Wow, does she ever shut her legs? Who would fuck someone _that_ overweight enough times to spawn at least five sprogs?

To be fair, she may have been classified as only homely in her youth, but you doubt anyone would want to touch her now; you'd need to roll her in flour to find the wet spot if you ever wanted to get your dick wet.

Big tits though.

Then again, if she was fat but had no tits, then there would clearly be no God.

Not that you believe in a God or anything.

Just a common phrase is all.

There is a little girl amongst them; you'd pity her bad genes and likely future weight problems if you cared about her self esteem whatsoever.

Why the hell is that stupid ginger sprinting at the wall?

Oh, this could be fun to watch.

And he hits the wall right... about... now!

What! Total rip-off!

Where's the concussion and/or serious brain damage!

Huh, totally would not have guessed that you needed to run headfirst into a wall in order to get to the train.

Must be a wizard thing.

Well, at least you know where platform nine and three quarters is now.

* * *

You look around the empty compartment.

It doesn't _look_ like a magic train.

Looks like any other train compartment you've ever seen.

At least you got one to yourself.

You wouldn't want to share a trip with those stupid gingers, that's for sure.

Seeing nothing interesting about your surroundings, you go back to your DADA book. Year three.

You'd much rather be reading about the dark arts themselves, but this works in a pinch.

A couple knocks on the door forces you to look up from your book.

Oh, for the love of...

"Anyone sitting there? Everywhere else is full..."

That seems doubtful.

"So, there are no other empty compartments?"

"Um, yeah. They're all full."

Terrible liar.

"Right."

You go back to your book and start to read again.

"So, um, can I sit here?"

Fuck off.

You put your book down.

"I'm not sure, can you?"

"Oh, okay, thanks!"

God what an idiot. Now that's over, back to the book.

"You excited about Hogwarts?"

It's in situations like this where the Dark Arts would come in handy.

"Yes."

"What house do you think you'll be in?"

Slytherin.

"I don't know."

"I hope I'll be in Gryffindor like my family."

You _really_ don't care.

"That's nice."

"All my brothers have been in Gryffindor. Even my brother Percy who's a total ponce."

If the moron thinks he's a ponce, then this Percy fellow is probably the normal one.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Bill and Charlie have graduated already, but the twins and Percy are here and Ginny is going to start next year."

Seven kids...? Either that woman really likes to fuck, or there is some sort of fertility magic at work there.

"Big family."

"Yeah. Anyways, I'm Ron, Ron Weasley."

Don't care.

"Harry Potter."

"Harry... Blimey! _The_ Harry Potter?"

Oh God, another fan.

"Yes."

"That's so amazing! I'm sharing a compartment with Harry Potter! What are the chances of that!"

You stifle a sudden urge to bring your palm to your face and let out a loud sigh.

"Anyways, I really need to get back to reading this book -"

"Can I see your, well... you know?"

...What? He wants to see your 'you know'? Whats wrong with this kid? Fucking pervert.

"My... what exactly are you asking to look at?"

"You know, your scar!"

"My... Scar?"

"Yeah! Your scar!"

What a freak. Then again, your not very normal either.

Fine. At least he isn't asking to look at your penis. That would be awkward.

You pull back your hair.

"Happy?"

"Wow! It looks so cool! So that's where-"

Suddenly the door opened to reveal a brown haired girl with a bossy voice and big teeth.

"Have any of you seen a toad?" the girl asked.

"No."

"No."

"Neville Longbottom lost his toad and we're looking for it."

You already said no, what more does she want?

"There is no toad in here," you reply.

"Okay, well if you see one, come find me."

Aaaaand... off she goes. Wait, _shit_! She's leaving you alone with the crazy scar loving fan-boy!

What's worse, the fan-boy, or an unknown girl?

You take a look at the ginger and see him staring back at you with this... grin... That, and he has a rat crawling out of his cloak.

Okay!

You get out an run out of the compartment to catch up with the girl.

"Wait! I'll come with you, I'm sure you could use another pair of eyes!"

"Sure, I guess."

Before the idiot could follow you, you slide the door shut and get far away from the guy as fast as physically possible.

Your off that section of the train in a matter of seconds.

"You're in a hurry," she said.

Damn right you are. Walking... walking... keep walking...

"Something tells me that the search for a toad isn't your true motivation to walk this fast." she continued.

Oh, we have ourselves a regular genius here.

"What could have possibly tipped you off?"

Most humor escapes you, but sarcasm you get. Sarcasm is a socially accepted way to insult people. What's not to love?

"No need to be snarky. Anyways, why are we walking so fast? We're likely to miss the toad if we keep moving at this pace."

"I'm running away from my compartment. That guy is so... well, there is something seriously wrong with him."

Coming from you, that means he's pretty fucked up.

"Oh?"

"Totally brainless, and a fan to boot; he also had a rat crawling all over his body. What is with _that_?"

"A fan? A fan of... wait, you're Harry Potter?"

Ah shit.

"Guilty as charged."

"I read about you in –"

"I didn't authorize any biographies or any so called 'interviews' aside the one in Time Magazine, so whatever else you've read is false."

"Oh, well, anyways, I... I loved you in that Daniel Day-Lewis movie. I don't think he would have won that Oscar without you."

Ah, a fan, but an educated one.

"It was a tough role, but I think the film turned out well."

"Its a shame about that episode of Doctor Who you did right before the Oscars – terrible writing on that one – you might have been nominated if it weren't for that."

Everyone's a critic...

You seriously need to kill your agent, that or worse, fire him. You'll never live that damned episode down!

"You were great though!" she quickly added.

"It wasn't the show's finest hour, that's for sure."

Sadly, that's the truth.

"Amazing, _Harry Potter_ is a wizard. A famous actor, and now a famous wizard. What's it like being so well known in both worlds?"

"They seem to be strangely fixated on my scar here. That idiot back there straight out asked to see it. Who goes up to someone and asks 'can I see the disfigured part of your face?'"

She giggled.

Was that funny? People always laugh at the weirdest things. You won't be doing any comedies any time soon. That's for sure.

* * *

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

Why do the first years travel separately? Doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

Probably the big oaf's idea.

On boats? Why would we go across a lake on boats when we could be taking the demon winged horse thing's carriages like everyone else?

You shake off the hangers on (AKA Beaver tooth, and Ginger) and take your ride with Darco and his two... well, friends would be a generous term for them.

If he talks to the two of them as equals, then you have sorely misjudged Draco's social standing and intelligence level.

"So Draco, what do you think of those stupid gingers on the train?" you ask when your boat is far enough away from the others.

"Gingers? Oh, you mean the Weasleys! Father always said that they all have red hair, freckles, and more children then they could afford. Seeing them for myself, I must agree. What sorry excuses of wizards they all are."

"I couldn't agree more. The youngest boy actually had the gall to ask to see my scar! What's wrong with that kid?"

"Moron."

"And don't get me started on the rat that was crawling all over him!"

"He had a rat as a pet?"

"I can't be sure. Perhaps he doesn't bathe properly and the rat felt the need to stay with it's own kind?"

Cue sarcasm, cue laughter.

"Who was that bucktooth you were talking to earlier?"

"I wasn't really paying attention when she said her name, but from what she was rambling on about, I think her parents are dentists. Dentists who let their child have teeth like that."

"Dentists?"

"Muggle doctors who specialize in teeth."

"...Who deliberately goes into that career?"

"Saber-tooth's parents it would seem. In their defense, it _is_ a relatively well paying job."

"Couldn't pay me enough to touch rotting muggle teeth."

"Same here. So what's the story with your two, um, friends? Do they talk?"

"Not often."

"Is there a reason for that?"

"Their grasp on the English language is fleeting at best."

"And at worst?"

"I sometimes wonder if they'll forget to breathe. I keep hoping every day but..."

"Then why exactly are they here?"

"Their fathers owe my father a few major favors, so they are now my _'bodyguards'_ as a way to repay their debts."

"I wouldn't trust my continued well-being to them."

"Nor would I; they're here mostly for the intimidation factor."

"Well, they fail on both counts. They look like they're constipated. Wonderful."

"Quite. So, what house are you hoping for?"

"That crazy fan-boy wants Gryffindor, so that's out."

"Not much of a loss."

"No, not really. Hufflepuff seems to be a dumping ground for weaklings, so no thank you."

You probably couldn't keep up your act up amongst all the attention a bunch of loyal and loving individuals like them would give. That, and no one has ever accused you of being a hard worker.

"Also true."

"Either Ravenclaw or Slytherin for me."

"Both fine houses. I would enjoy your presence in Slytherin, but I'm sure no one would be against a 'claw and a snake spending time together."

"Indeed."

He may be a fan, but at least he's a gifted conversationalist.

That, and he is currently your only in to the Dark Arts crowd.

* * *

The great hall is quite a feat in magic.

At least, it looks cool. Who knows how difficult it was to construct?

Oh God, that thought wasn't a prompt for the know-it-all to go on and on about the founders. Down girl!

You look around the room.

All the older students are already sitting at their tables.

The teachers are sitting at their table as well.

At the middle sat a man of quite advanced age. As you look at him, he too looked back at you.

He stared at you for a good ten seconds before looking away; a grimace on his face.

That was strange.

You zone out for a moment before a silly song fills the room.

Why is that hat singing? Oh is see. A sorting hat.

Pretty foolish to let a thousand year old hat decide who goes where.

You look around the room aimlessly as the students are sorted.

You take note that the beaver-girl went to Gryffindor.

Draco went to Slytherin as he wanted. You nod to him as he makes his way to his table. He nods back.

Soon enough, you hear your own name and walk your way up to the stool.

All the mutterings from the students, while admittedly expected, are still really quite annoying.

Have none of them ever seen a celebrity?

How will they treat you for the next seven years?

You plop yourself down on the stool and get the hat placed on your head.

"Hmmm," A voice in your ear says, "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh yes – and a thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting. Now, where to put you?"

You agree with the talent and the thirst to prove yourself, but not the 'not a bad mind' part; you have a pretty good mind if you don't mind saying so yourself, and whats this about courage...?

The hat is clearly defective.

Slytherin. Put me in Slytherin.

"_Not_ Slytherin, eh?" the hat said, "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that."

SLYTHERIN! Put me in _**SLYTHERIN**_! Are you listening to me you stupid hat?

"No? Well. If you're sure – better be GRYFFINDOR!"

What the _**FUCK**_!


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

* * *

...Gryffindor?

_**Gryffindor?**_

How the _**FUCK**_ do you fit in Gryffindor? That's practically the exact opposite of what you are!

That hat will burn. You don't exactly know how you will ever manage it, but it will burn, and you will laugh.

You may not know any fire spells yet, but you will.

That's first on the list.

You look at your new table and see a couple of the stupid gingers laughing and clapping about their newest member: you.

Those redheads sure look like… Oh god. The crazy fan-boy is going to be sorted here too! Seven years in a dorm with that moron? That sounds so epically painful; there is no way that you will let him live that long!

What will Draco think? He's the only person you know that has access to the dark arts! Will he resent your _obviously_ false sorting?

Fuck!

How the hell are you ever going to learn the dark arts now?

You sit and wait.

The bucktooth is sitting next to you, and she keeps trying to strike up a conversation.

Not now.

Fuck! You can't even protest the sorting!

What do you say, 'I want to be in Slytherin!'

'Why?'

'Because otherwise Draco won't teach me the dark arts!'

Yeah, that won't work out very well.

You look up to the staff table and see the elderly man from earlier looking down at you again; a small smile on his face.

Is this Dumbledore - the most powerful Light wizard in the past century?

He looks more likely to stroke out than to win in a duel.

With the way he's looking at you, perhaps the pedophile magician club wasn't that far off a term?

You're brought out of your thoughts by a weight shift on the bench and a hard slap on your back.

"We made it! We're both Gryffindors! This is so great!"

It's really, really, not.

"Yeah, great."

In opposite land.

"We're going to have so much fun! Me and the boy-who-lived as best mates!"

Wait, what?

"Boy-who–?"

"For years I've dreamt of us getting sorted together! We're going to have so many adventures!"

Huh...?

"I just _knew_ the second I walked into your compartment and saw your scar that we were going to be spending the next seven years together!"

...Scar? What has your scar got to do with anything?

Before you could ask what the hell he was talking about, the old man started talking and everyone hushed down.

First he welcomed all the students with open arms, then…

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

What the _fuck…?_

Why do they let someone in a late stage of dementia… wait, it that food?

God, you love food. Well, if you knew what love was, you might love it. You very much enjoy food; you'll leave it at that.

If you had to choose between killing an annoying person who was talking with his mouth full and some damn good grub, you would likely have to do a mental list and weigh the pros and cons before killing the bloke.

Then you'd eat your food. Maybe his too. If it's good that is.

Did you mention you like food?

No need to steal the moron's food though. Plenty of that to go around.

Your still fifty/fifty on if you should kill him though.

He eats like a pig. No, that's insulting to pigs. He eats like himself, and that's pretty bad.

Did his mother never smack him upside the head for eating like this?

Shit, he's turning to talk to you. Cover the face!

He prattles on about how evil Slytherins are, and tries to talk about some silly sport on brooms, but your concentration is more centered on keeping the pieces of food spewing from the boy's mouth from hitting you.

When he grows tired of your non-responses, he turns to the guy on his other side, and you wipe your now dirty hands off on his robes. He doesn't seem to notice or mind.

Bucktooth does though.

She fits you with an irritated look, and you shrug your shoulders. That normally gets people off your back.

Deciding that your current plate is contaminated by spit, you carefully swap with a neighbor when he's not looking and grab a scoop of potatoes and ladle on a generous helping of gravy.

People say that British food is bad, but you whole-heartedly disagree.

Who doesn't like gravy? Communists. That's who.

That's what the whole cold war boiled down to in your book. If the soviets had their way, everyone would be eating borscht!

It's a shame really; aside the love for Russian food, you and Stalin could have been the best of friends. The whole 'I killed twenty million people' thing is great trait for a friend yours to have…

Whereas, Gorbachev may claim to like gravy more than most, but he still liked borscht, and that makes him a communist in your book.

Ah, metaphors.

The awesome food did nothing however to get thoughts of a hat burning out of your head.

How often do they bring the hat out? Where is it stored when not in use? Is it fireproof? Will it scream as it burns?

God you hope so.

So many thinks to learn, and such little time.

You were so lost in your thoughts, that you didn't notice your food disappearing until after you brought an empty spoon to your mouth.

You look up and see that all the food in the hall was gone.

Mother_fuckers_!

The old fart was standing again, and you wondered how he could. A strong enough breeze could knock him over.

Where is the wind when you need it? Sure you're indoors, but they have magic, it could be done!

The forbidden forest is forbidden. No shit Sherlock.

Now, where's your food!

Oh, for fuck's sake… Okay no magic in the halls. Okay. Bring the food back now.

What is with wizards and this quiddich shit? The game is just a bunch of sissies flying around on broomsticks.

It's like handball, but far more homoerotic. Which is quite a feat given that handball has the words hand and ball in its name.

Sure, sure… out of bounds… painful death… wait, what?

A painful death for going in a room? Now we're talking. That would probably peak your interest if you weren't fucking _starving_!

Well, now that that's over, let's get back to the food…

A song? They expect you to sing? In what tune?

Okay... well that pretty much explains why he didn't specify a tune. Everyone chooses their own! This is one of the worst things you've ever heard!

Most people say, 'that sounded like a cat dying!' - or something to that effect - when a song sucks, but to you that kind of sound is soothing. No, this sounds like nails on a chalkboard while old people have sex. Loudly.

Not a good sound, and you are very relieved when it stops.

Why learn a torture curse when you can make that kind a noise at will? Your respect for the old guy in the bathrobe goes up a notch.

So, what's negative one thousand plus one?

He orders you all off to bed, and in that moment, he lost all the points in the world.

No more food?

Minus one bagillion-gazillion points to Dumbledore.

That's a lot of catching up to do. Only way he can make it back to positive numbers is if he resorts you into Slytherin, shows you to the kitchen…

…And teaches you the dark arts.

That, and someone needs to tell you what this whole Boy-Who-Lived thing is...


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

* * *

You sit in an unreasonably uncomfortable seat nestled amidst rows and rows of old (and frankly foul smelling) books, and read the passage.

You blink.

You read it again.

You blink again.

What the…

_The story of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, is one veiled in mystery and intrigue. How did he defeat You-Know-Who? How powerful a wizard IS he? Where is he now?_

_We don't have all the answers, but here is what we do know._

_On July 31, 1980 he was born to James Potter and Lily Potter (n__é__e Evans) unknown to them, their baby boy would in little over a year defeat the darkest wizard of the age._

You blink again.

What the FUCK!

In what person's mind is it considered reasonable for a toddler to defeat the most powerful wizard in the world?

This author needs to lay off the crack. Or potions? Are there crack addicted wizards, or have they come up with their own vices? Regardless, there must be some other more reputable book…

You scan over the titles of books that the librarian suggested. _Modern Magical History_, _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_, seemed to be the most 'reputable' sounding of the titles, but if what you read in _Modern Magical History_ is considered 'reputable', then you shudder to think what reading _Harry Potter and the Dragon, Harry Potter and the Dementor's child, or Harry Potter goes to Austrailia_ would be like.

_The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ it is!

Antonin Doholov… Grindlewald… Bellatrix Lestrange… Ah! 'You-Know-Who'! No, you don't _really_ know who, but it seems to be the accepted name of the evil Dark Lord you 'killed'.

Fuck people are stupid. A name's a name. Probably isn't even a very scary name.

And this one says…

_You-Know-Who kick-started his reign of terror in 1971 when he assassinated the incumbent Minister of Magic Mr…_

Blah blah blah. Get to the good stuff…

Gathering followers… Imperius curse (note to self, learn that curse. It sounds awesome!)… Werewolves… Dumbledore… Ah! Harry Potter!

_Little is known of that fateful night, but what we do know is astounding._

_The Potter family (**fig 122-a**) had, for reasons known only to themselves, gone into hiding. They used an ancient spell known as the Fidelius Charm to protect their home from attack. The charm allows the secret of a location to be hidden inside the soul of a person. Sadly, the Potters put their trust in the wrong person, one Sirius Black (**fig 84-d**). _

_Black appeared to be a close friend of the Potters, but secretly he yearned for the power the Dark Lord possessed. It is not known when or even why, but at some point Black joined the Dark Lord and when given the trust of the Potter's secret, he immediately abused that trust and revealed their location to the Dark Lord._

_Radical claims have suggested that Black was the Dark Lord's second of command, but given Black's young age, and the numerous and much more powerful wizards under the Dark Lord's command (**See Antonin Doholov pg. 55, Fenir Greyback pg. 63, and Bellatrix Lestrange pg. 84**), this author will not believe in this theory until conclusive evidence is given._

_On October 31, 1981 the Dark Lord attacked the Potter home in Godric's Hollow (**fig 122-b**) James Potter fought valiantly and from the numerous corpses of dead (and in some cases exotic) animals found and reported by the Aurors at the scene, it is assumed that James used his extensive talents in transfiguration to fight the Dark Lord._

_Strangely however it appears as if Lily Potter, who was found in the nursery, did not put up any fight whatsoever. She died from a killing curse to the chest with her wand still securely fastened to her wrist._

_When the Dark Lord turned his wand to the infant Harry Potter (**no picture available**) something extraordinary happened._

_Many plausible explanations have been theorized by some of the greatest magical minds in the world, but no one person knows for sure what happened next. What is known, is that when the Dark Lord sent the Killing curse (**pg. 12**) at the child, Harry did something no person ever has. He lived. The boy lived! The most powerful wizard in recent history attempted to kill a defenseless child, and not only did the child live, but You-Know-Who died himself!_

Why didn't she fight? You were there, why didn't she do anything?

People actually believe this crap? You're famous here because of something that happened before you were even capable of… well… pretty much anything?

And what kind of stupid moniker is the 'Boy-Who-Lived' anyway? That might just be the most uncreative name ever… then again, 'You-Know-Who' is pretty ridiculous…

* * *

As you make your way through the great hall to an empty seat, you lazily fantasize about all the food you are about to eat.

You decide then and there that even if all the classes in this school suck, the tuition is worth it due to the sheer volume of food.

Where do they get all this bacon? These eggs, they're still perfect, even though you suspect they've been sitting there on the table for a while.

You finally find a seat and start to pull random things off of every platter.

Bacon. Waffles. Eggs. Sausage. Fruit.

Are the meals like this every day? You had assumed that the meal last night had been a special occasion due to the sorting, but clearly, wizards like to eat in style. Compliments to the chefs as they clearly know what they're doing. Most competent wizards you've seen yet!

And look at that! Gravyyyyy!

You're interrupted from your food lust by a loud conversation a couple of seats down the table.

"Shut up Cormac! You're such a liar!"

"It's true! I was there in Diagon Alley when Ollivianders burnt down! The fire was HUGE! I saw the fire reach thirty feet in the air, don't tell me I wasn't there!"

Clearly he wasn't; the fire wasn't _nearly_ that high. Here you thought that the special woods and magical creature parts would make an awesome flame, and all it looked like was a plain old house fire.

It paled in comparison to the dursleys fire. At least there were screams with that one.

You don't comment of course, that would look suspicious. You get back to your food and plan out the rest of your day.

* * *

Transfiguration class was great.

Not only did you get to do some real magic, but you got to show up that beaver-girl. Sure she knew all the answers to all the questions and she got all kinds of house points (not that you care about that kind of thing), but while she and the rest of the class struggled to turn their matches silvery or pointy, you on the other hand had a real-life shiny pin in your hand by the end of the class.

The ten points she got from answering questions was nice. Your twenty points and gushing praise ("Just like your father!") was better.

In all fairness, the girl is smart. Maybe not as smart as you, but she is book-smart. She takes the time and effort to actually learn the stuff, you on the other hand just like to pick stuff up as you go.

It's just like when you did movies. Why memorize the script, when the director is more than willing to feed you lines? That, and some of your most praised roles are ones where you improvised.

The directors were actually a little less than happy about feeding you lines actually. In fact, most were actually pretty pissed about that. They still always ended up doing it though, didn't they?

And you still think that by improvising it all seems more real anyways.

That's your skill. You do things in the moment.

Sure would be nice if you could get her to do your homework for you though. You're pretty sure she'll get better marks on her essays than you.

She seems like a stuck up bitch though. Not one to share her knowledge freely. She could be taken down a peg or three, that's for sure. No one else seems willing, so why not you? She doesn't seem to be making any friends with her 'I am soooo much smarter than you, so HA!' attitude you're pretty sure it wouldn't be too difficult to make that permanent. People like you, they don't like her.

You and a pack of first year Gryffindors are walking down a corridor on your way to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

You turn to the black boy beside you and say, "That Granger girl is pretty stuck up eh?"

"Oh yeah. She thinks she's better than everyone!" the black guy said.

"Yeah, and she thinks it's the greatest thing ever when she gets points, but if someone else earns them she acts like it's a personal affront!" Another boy chimed in.

"…Affront? Whats that mean?" The moron asked.

"Attack. Offence. Like the professor was insulting her by giving me more points than her." You reply/

"Oh yeah! What was that about? she got points, and that's nice, but then you get like twenty points and she gets pissed off! We're all in the same house! Your points are our points!" Redhead shot out.

"Yeah."

Well, it's a start.

* * *

You come out of defense class seriously pissed off. You went in there expecting to duel (perhaps not to the death or anything, though that would be cool with you) but instead you had to listen to the inane ramblings of a half-wit stutterer who probably only got the job through idiotic equal opportunity laws!

And to think, you read the texts all the way through third year, and the moron didn't even have you crack open the first year text! Here was where you were going to shame that uppity bitch; you know those books back to front, and he didn't even _ask any questions_!

That's the last time _you_ read ahead in a book.

Defence Against the Dark Arts! What a joke!

* * *

Later in the day as you walk to your double potions class, you are stopped in the halls by none other than the big oaf.

"'arry! How's good ol' 'ogwarts treatin' ya'?"

Ah shit. This guy again. Damn you equal opportunity laws! Can't they hire the retarded people for useless jobs like night time security or stocking shelves? Well, they probably have spells for the last one, but still!

"Very good, sir."

"Tha' good to 'ear! How's 'edwig doin'?"

What the hell is a edwig?

"Edwig?"

"Ya' know, 'edwig, your owl!"

Owl? What ow — oh! Right, he gave you an owl! Shit. What do you say? 'Oh, I cut off one of his wings and watched as it tried to fly out the window, only to watch it plummet to its death?'

Ok, that's out. Ok, fake tears.

"He… He flew away sir."

"Oh no! Terrible thing tha'! Maybe I should get ya' another one?"

No. For the love of God _no_.

"That's okay sir… maybe he'll fly back to me some day…"

"Weren't she a she?"

"That's what I meant. Maybe she'll fly back to me some day…"

"Maybe son… maybe…"

Idiot.

* * *

AN: Brother Bludgeon has agreed to beta this fic, as well as help direct the plot. Thank you to all the offers!

-Lineape


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

* * *

After dispensing with pleasantries with the big oaf – well, not dispensing with pleasantries; more like running away as fast as possible from him – you make your way to your next class: Potions.

You've heard a great many things about the resident Potions master… everything ranging from him being a dick, all the way to him being the epitome of evil.

You're pretty sure no one really likes the guy.

If you had to choose between dick and pure evil, the man is probably something down the middle of the two, because it's rare that a common dick could elicit such dislike, but at the same time you very much doubt that someone who has also been described as is evil incarnate could be employed at a school. Then again, you're here, so who's to say that you're the only evil being in the whole castle?

Big castle this is.

The redheaded fool next to you seems to think the man is evil, and going by the child's general lack of intelligence, you would more likely believe the man had a stack of pink doilies sitting on a desk in his quarters rather than the torture chamber the moron describes.

Don't take anything the idiot says as the truth. In fact, if he believes it, automatically assume the opposite to be true.

Probably a good rule of thumb.

The fact that his prankster brothers are the ones who told him of the torture chamber kind of proves your point.

The boy has been living with them his whole life, how could he possibly believe a word they say?

You wonder what potions class will be like. Will it be like in Shakespeare with a handful of insane witches standing above a boiling cauldron each of them throwing in all numbers of strange things?

Double, double, toil and trouble;  
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

The Scottish play. The Bard. That man sure knew how to kill people…

Or perhaps it's all an exact science? 530g of Unicorn liver mixed with 6.9ml of Dragon urine over a Bunsen burner burning at 1300 degrees Celsius for three minutes and eleven seconds in order to brew a sleeping potion.

Mmmm… tasty… wait, brewing involves fermentation doesn't it?

Your internal ramblings are suddenly cut short by the arrival of a tall man who carelessly rams through the neat little queue of students waiting to enter the classroom on his way to the door.

After he opens the door, it hits the wall with a resounding bang.

While the plebs around you scurry to their seats, you lazily walk and observe the room and your surroundings.

The middle aged man started prattling on about such things as wand waving fools, dunderheads, and something about the fumes of a simmering potion, but you pay little attention to the rant. Instead, you look at the man that so many fear.

How could he possibly incur such terror?

What is he wearing? This is supposed to be the greatest school of magic in the world, how could a man of his apparent social stature walk around in stained clothes?

Surely wizards have a way of cleaning their robes. Or cleaning their hair! Christ. That man needs a bath!

Maybe he should smear some potions in his greasy hair; perhaps that will help his appearance some? Then again, he's a potions master why hasn't he thought of this already?

Oh, perhaps the fumes from his simmering potions have permanently damaged his hair?

Idiot.

As the man ends his rant, he looks at you. Perhaps not in the eyes, but definitely in your general direction, then he looks away with a furious look on his face.

Interesting. Where has this resentment come from?

You see he wants to say something, but every time he looks at you, he suddenly and sharply looks away.

He quickly orders you – well, not you specifically, but the class – to open your textbooks to the proper page and to pull out a piece of parchment. He then orders you to write down the instructions on the board.

You however don't have parchment. Instead you pull out a coil notebook with lined paper.

While you do support the killing of animals for the use in writing materials – as that is how parchment is made – the stuff is just too hard to write on in your opinion.

As the class passes, you catch the professor staring at you multiple times, and each time you look him in the eye he quickly looks at something else.

That is a strange occurrence. What is not a strange occurrence is the continued bumbling failures of Neville Longbottom.

You've seen him fail at everything he has attempted thus far.

He lost a toad of all things.

He tripped four times on the way from the great hall to the dorm room. Four!

He lost points in transfiguration for holding his wand backwards then proceeded to not turn a match into a pin or have any progress whatsoever.

He then tripped a further three times on the way to this class.

Which brings you back to today.

After every botched step of his 'potion' he looked up at the Potions master with a terrified look on his face, expecting to be forcibly rebuked for his substandard work.

It only happened about half the time, but whenever it did you silently cheered the man on.

You hate abuse, and you hate abusers, but above those two things you hate the weak.

Neville is weak. Weakness in its purest form.

While Severus Snape may or may not be be the epitome of evil – your money is on not – Neville Longbottom on the other hand is most definitely the epitome of weakness.

Everything about the boy screams punch me, kick me! I am a loser! I will not do anything to save myself!

If you were less like yourself and more like Neville Longbottom, then you'd still be sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs at your relatives – begging for scraps off their table, and hoping you wouldn't be hit one more time for audacity to ask for more food.

Wait, they didn't hit you much for that, no, that punishment was saved for more serious offences like dropping a dish while washing it, mistakenly cutting down a rose and not its thorn, or breathing.

They used that last one quite a bit, it got somewhat old.

Neville Longbottom wouldn't last one week in your hell. You wonder what he had to live with?

He seems the pureblood type; did he have _ponies_ and a loving family? Money? His own room and a bed where he could actually _stretch his legs_? Poor Neville Longbottom; what a tortured existence you must have endured.

What does he have to feel so bad about?

You watch as the mess that Neville calls a Potion finally starts to bubble out of control; the catalyst being the Meliae honey which shifted the orange muck into a fiery red concoction.

That was two seconds before it exploded.

Luckily with you being the last student into the classroom, you are situated in the back of the room – far from ground zero and the all countless spurts of red goo.

Most of the Gryffindors and half the Slytherins are not so lucky.

The redhead runs screaming as boils quickly grow on his face.

The bucktooth scampers off into a little corner and cries as half of her hair falls straight off, leaving splotchy bald spots all over her head. You're not exactly sure why she cries; it's an improvement over her previous haircut.

You don't care too much what happened to the others, their two reactions were nice to watch all by themselves.

As the class is quickly dismissed and the injured students are carted off to the infirmary, you sit still and watch.

You drink in the chaos going on around you.

Potions is totally your new favorite class.

* * *

AN: That last chapter was a little bit of an experiment. Not one word of dialogue in that one. Hope it wasn't terrible; a tad short perhaps.

Praise be to **Brother Bludgeon** for his fine betaing.

He is the first one beside myself to see the outline for this story and he has some great ideas for it.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

* * *

Standing on the grass, your classmates lined up beside you, you must first remind yourself of something that happened just a year before.

You see your agent, in his all-knowing wisdom – as a side-note, you really should fire that fucking moron – signed you up for some supposedly big budget studio film with all sorts of special effects and what have you.

It was supposed to be your big break he said – not hardly.

First off, it wasn't that big of a movie. You were the biggest star in the film at the ripe old age of _ten_ – that should have been your first clue.

Secondly, it was a first time director who had only previously done work on the telly.

That should have been an air siren warning in your head.

Thirdly, and this is something you only learned _afterwards_ the budget _**wasn't even that high**_!

So here you were, starring (not co-starring!) on a low-budget action flick with a first time director.

Recipe for a box office hit if you've ever heard of one.

First day of filming, they have you stung up in a safety harness dangling from a crane twenty feet up in the air in front of a green screen.

Oh, you shudder at the memory.

It all looked okay, and they were about to start shooting, when all of a sudden you start plummeting to the fucking ground!

Here, you're thinking you're about to die, but when you hit the ground you _bounce_!

Needless to say you quit that film before they got you killed for real.

You're replacement didn't get killed, but you can't say the same about his career.

Pretty hard to have a career when you've been involved in a movie that lost eighty million dollars eh?

Back then you had no clue what happened with all that bouncing business. The crew and everyone involved thought there was some sort of miracle, but after hearing about Neville 'falling' out a window, you get it.

Speaking of Neville Longbottom, you got to hear another pathetic facet of his already flaccid persona this morning. He has a bad memory now too. Something about a rememberball or all or something. Dear God in heaven what a wet napkin that boy is.

Anyway! You don't like heights. You're not _afraid_ or anything. Please. It's just you… don't light heights.

Not a contradiction. Nope. Not at all. You just prefer not to be in situations where you need to squint to see the ground.

Which brings you to gnarled piece of wood lying on the ground before you.

They call it a broom, and apparently you're supposed to _fly_ with it.

It's a required class to boot.

What is _wrong_ with these people?

Must they seriously follow every stereotype and cliché muggles have about them?

Witches flying on brooms? What's next, talking cats?

And now you're supposed to get the bloody thing into your hand.

"Up!" she says. What, are wizards too proud to bend over and pick up their brooms?

Oh well, might as well give it a try.

"Up!" you yell.

The broom suddenly smacks into your hand.

Huh, that was easy. Now all that's left is to mount it and… fly.

You're not afraid. Not possible. Nope. You don't like heights, that's all. No fear involved whatsoever.

You see out the corner of your eye Neville Longbottom mounting his broom and pushing off. Scratch that, Houston, we have lift off.

Huh, who would have taken Neville Longbottom for being a natural flier…? Wait, never mind.

That must have hurt.

Neville fails again. And what was the damage this time? Oh? Just a broken wrist? Pity it wasn't his neck.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing!" the woman suddenly shouts, "You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

The moment the woman was gone Draco bursts into laughter.

"Did you see his face?" the boy says between snickers.

A few of your housemates make half-hearted attempts to defend the boy's honor, but really, what was there to defend?

A small thing like that and he's bawling like a baby. You don't laugh really, but it was amusing to watch all the same.

"Look!" Draco suddenly cries, while bending over to pick something up. "It's that thing his gran sent him!"

Oh, right! The remember… all… ball… thing.

Draco starts throwing the ball up and down, tossing it between hands.

Suddenly people are looking at you.

What the hell? What do they want?

The moron sidles up to you and asks, "Well, what are you gonna do, mate? You gonna curse him and get Neville's Remembrall back?"

Wait, what?

"Um, no?"

"What! Why not! You're the boy-who-lived and Draco's being a ponce! Aren't you gonna do something?"

You look away from the moron and see that now everyone is looking at you – Including Draco who seemed to be awaiting your decision. A test then?

'Where do you stand Harry?'

You're no hero. Especially not Neville Longbottom's hero.

"No."

"No?"

"No, why should it be my job?"

"Bloody hell! If you're not doing anything then I am!" Ron shouts. "Give it here, Malfoy!"

Draco looks at you and winks, and then looks at Ron and smiles.

"Oh? Maybe I should leave it somewhere for the fat crybaby to find. Up a tree, perhaps?"

With that, Draco is up in the air and next to a tree in seconds.

The moron is on his broom in a heartbeat. That was the easy part.

In the following moments he clumsily – and very slowly – follows Draco to the tree.

"G-give it here Malfoy!" he cries, taking one hand off the broom to point, and in doing so, nearly falling off the damn thing.

He quickly has his hand back on the broom.

"Really Weasel, you must work on your flying technique. I can imagine a squib like Neville having trouble on a broom with his lack of magic and all…" The boy replies, all while doing a few flying maneuvers, "Well, I suppose your family couldn't afford a broom, and so this is your first time?"

"I have too ridden a broom, l-loads of times!"

"Prove it." he deadpans while lazily tossing the ball in the air, "Go fetch, boy."

Not one to shy away from a challenge, the boy dives for the ball full speed. Of course, he is as incompetent as ever and crashes quite spectacularly on the ground.

Next to him lays the shattered remains of the ball.

"Shame." Draco says as he carefully drifts back to the ground.

Ron lays groaning on the ground for a few moments before Professor McGonagall comes sprinting out onto the field.

"Mr. Weasley! What in the name of Merlin do you think you were doing!"

Between groans he mutters, "Malfoy…"

"I don't care what Mr. Malfoy did. Why the hell did you run your broom straight into the ground at full speed?"

"Uhhhh…" he moans.

"Very well, off to the infirmary for you, but don't think whatever injuries you sustained will be your entire punishment! I'll hear what you have to say, and depending on how foolish it is, we'll see how long you need to spend writing lines about how bad an idea it is to fly headfirst into the ground! Wizarding children today…"

When she finishes levitating the idiot into the school Draco had had enough, and fell to the grass gasping for air.

"That was… so much… better… than I could have imagined this… going…" he laughs.

* * *

The flying instructor returns eventually and is quite puzzled to find her class smaller than when she had left it.

Draco has quite the hard time keeping a straight face while retelling the story, but somehow he manages to do so.

With no time left to actually do the lesson, the woman reschedules the class for the next week and dismisses everyone.

In less than a minute, you are standing in the middle of an abandoned field.

With no one to see you, you carefully pick up the remains of the shattered Remembrall and place them in an empty pocket.

You have a _wonderful_ idea about what to do with this.

* * *

As a group, all of your dorm mates come and pick up Neville at the infirmary in order to escort him back to his room. The red around his eyes is proof enough of his feeble state. Wuss.

The halls are nearly empty this close to curfew, so it is a short trip back to the dorms.

A few scattered 'get well's and other useless platitudes are given to the distraught boy, but he still seems to be in a bad mood.

As the four of you guide the boy to his bed, you eagerly await what's coming next.

On Neville's bed sits a plain white handkerchief with something written in bold black letters.

**Squib**.

You heard Malfoy say it earlier, and so thought it a nice term to repeat.

Neville stood there staring at the thing for a good long moment before falling to his knees and crying once more.

Everyone in the room – aside you of course – is stunned by such a cruel act.

The black boy walks up to the bed and quietly says, "You don't need to see this, Neville." He grabs the hankie and throws it in the trash.

In doing so however, he uncovers something sitting directly underneath the cloth.

Glass.

Not just any glass, no. Shattered glass that looked _awfully_ similar to Neville's Remembrall.

In fact, is that the remains of his broken Remembrall? Why yes, yes it is.

Such a simple little plan, but boy did it all come together.

You give yourself a mental pat on the back when Neville starts bawling like the baby he is.

* * *

AN: I would like to take this time to reiterate that this character is _not_ a good person. He is vile, cruel, and needlessly so.

Once again I would like to thank **Brother Bludgeon** for being a top notch beta.

-Lineape


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

* * *

The aftermath of your harmless little prank against Neville is quite amusing.

You see, after discovering the Remembrall, the teachers were called, and it was determined that the culprit was most likely a Gryffindor. See, how could a slimy _Slytherin_ (as the fool protests) have done it? Do they have the password to the dorms? Could they sneak past a busy common room to do this?

No. It was a Gryffindor.

Neville of course hears this and starts crying even harder.

Someone in his own house hates him this much? Whaaaaaaa!

Cry, you big baby, cry.

* * *

The crying was nice at the beginning, but as the night wears on, you realize that it is rather difficult to sleep with the constant sniffles coming from the loser's bed.

That, and the redhead snores like no other. You're constantly reminded of a motorcycle revving its engine. Not one of those sexy imports either, no. More like those American monstrosities.

Ron is quite the messy boy too. He left a _shoe_ of all things sitting on _your _bedside table. You throw it at the guy in hopes of stopping the horrible sound.

It hits him in the head.

A loud snort, then more snoring.

Dorm rooms suck.

* * *

You can't sleep – not with that racket at least – so you decide not to try.

The clock in the common room tells you the time.

Two-thirty-six.

What a waste the last two hours have been.

As tempting as sticking cotton balls up the snorer's nostrils is, you don't actually _have_ any, so that's out.

So now you sit in the common room with nothing to do.

Just you and your thoughts.

Nope. Not boring at all.

Quite red in here. Is red one of Gryffindor's colors because he was a warrior? Did he bathe in the blood of his enemies? What an interesting thought. That would take an awful lot of blood.

Sure would take a lot of dead people to get that much.

A worthy weekend project if you've ever heard one.

Nah. Far too much effort.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Nope. Not bored at all.

Oh, a fireplace. Is that how they heat the castle at winter? That would _really_ suck. Scotland gets cold after all.

Wow, you really _are_ bored if you're seriously considering the winter heating system of your _school_.

What to do, what to do.

No-one here seems to be awake.

Aside yourself of course.

Read a book?

No.

Throw your dorm mate's possessions in the fire?

No. Tempting, but no. Probably get caught with that one. You don't want to get caught, do you?

What the hell else is there for you to do then?

Fucks sakes. Not even late-night telly to keep your mind active (or inactive depending on how you look at it).

There must be something to do _outside_ this common room.

Perhaps a nighttime stroll through the castle?

Do you want to chance being caught by the caretaker or his cat?

Well, if the cat spots you, you can always kill it. They say there's more than one way to skin a cat. It's true too. You can think of nine off the top of your head.

One for each of its lives.

Same goes for the caretaker you suppose. Though, if you're caught you might just take the punishment instead of skinning a guy in the middle of the corridor.

Messy business skinning is. That, and he might make a tad too much noise.

AHHHH! MY SKIN! I NEED THAT!

He probably wouldn't use those _exact_ words, but oh well.

You look at the door and then you look at the stairs leading up to your dorm.

You do it again.

Outside where the party is.

Inside where the snoozefest is.

Outside where there are corridors to explore.

Inside where the most interesting facet of the room is the bloody fireplace.

Outside where there are cats to skin.

Inside where your roommate sounds like a jet at takeoff.

Outside it is!

* * *

You've always been well aware of your surroundings.

When you enter a room you look to see where the exits are. No exceptions.

You always need to be able to _escape_.

That's something you picked up from necessity.

Aunt Petunia wants to hit you with a frying pan? You bolt for the door.

Uncle fatman wants to play 'whip the boy 'til he bleeds'? _You bolt for the door_.

Of course, doors aren't the only or best method of leaving a room. Windows work just as well – depending on the height of the window from the ground that is.

Bottom floor? Good.

Top floor? Bad.

Basic stuff. Common sense.

You always without fail check a room for exits, but that's not all you do.

You always need to know the layout of the surrounding area.

Being able to outrun your cousin helped for a time, but soon he used his 'gang' to corner you. Outflank you.

Speed wasn't good enough, no.

You needed to know your neighborhood better than him.

Scratch that, you needed to be able to predict everything in a chase.

Dudders hates getting wet. The Anderson's automatic sprinkler goes off at 7:30 every morning.

There's a hole in the fence behind the shed just big enough for you to fit through. Not Dudders.

Old Ms. Figg sits in her chair with all her cats every evening. She can see the street from her chair. Go there if need be, Dudders doesn't dare get caught by her.

That kind of thing.

Even after the Dursleys you never stopped this practice.

You _need_ to know this kind of stuff.

Hogwarts is a new place for you. New means unpredictable. Unpredictable means unsafe. Unsafe means dead.

A little extreme, but also true.

* * *

In half an hour, you get a little confused.

In an hour, you get annoyed.

In two, you're royally pissed.

Who designed this fucking place? _What is wrong with these people_?

Why make stairs that _move_? What is the point in that? Do they _want _students to be late to class?

There are stairways that go nowhere.

There are doors that open to corridors that you're _sure_ you've been down before, but the laws of physics and geometry couldn't possibly allow such corridors to connect in such ways.

You actually went through a door that somehow transported you from the second floor to the _fifth_ floor. How does _that_ work?

You choose a door at random.

After a solid minute of standing there like an idiot in front of the random door, you realize that there are doors that don't have _doorknobs_!

When you see a corridor quite literally change and _bend_ before your very eyes, you have a sudden urge to kill something.

Where is that damn cat when you need it?

* * *

What a waste of a night. No sleep. Nothing learned about the castle – aside the fact that there is no way to predict where you will end up – and no cats died during the course of the night.

Four-twenty-eight.

Your head hits the pillow, and the world disappears.

* * *

AN: Filler? Yes. Needed? Yes. Some things about his character have been developed, and I've also set a few things up in this chapter.

More updates soon.

Thank **Brother Bludgeon** for his mad beta skillz.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

* * *

Operation 'alienate the high and mighty bitch' has been a gargantuan success.

Under normal circumstances, you would have moved on from your little campaign against her _ages_ ago, but she makes it just so damn _easy_!

It's one thing to be intelligent and to do well in your studies, but she flaunts her knowledge. She frantically waves her hand in the air in every class, chomping at the bit for a chance to prove her superiority.

She wants her gold star, and she is willing to do anything to get it.

It seems that you being better than her at magic has made her a tad… crazy?

You're not the only one to notice either.

Her behavior isn't gaining her any favors from anyone.

A little poke from you here and a tiny nudge from you there, and _everyone_ hates her.

Of course, _you're_ kind to her.

It's amusing really, you speak ill of her in private – doing so in such a way that you're seen as a kind person who is just exasperated with the constant challenges of an overbearing know-it-all – but in public you're the only Gryffindor who seems willing to even tolerate her.

She studies her books like a lunatic— spending every waking minute trying to find a way to counter your gift with practical magic.

Wait, scratch that. The word 'gift' implies that you yourself have nothing at all to do with your magical abilities.

You've worked hard to get where you are! Well, not really, but you being a prodigy is a bad thing… how?

And you _do_ look ahead in your books from time to time. Take charms class for instance. Your midget teacher told everyone that they would be learning the floatation charm in the next lesson, so you read up on it and got it working.

You even mastered the variation you're supposed to learn in a few weeks time.

It's called the flight charm. Incitation being '_Locomotor_'.

Not hard or anything, just lets you control the movement of the flying object. Pretty much the exact same charm really.

_Anyways_, back to the bitch. You can see she's at the breaking point.

In transfiguration class she finished her work early, so she decided to help her neighbor Parvati. Now Parvati – for some _odd _reason – thinks that Hermione a few weeks prior referred to her as a 'stupid wog'. Not _your_ doing of course. Nope. Okay, maybe.

What happens next is neat. Parvati, the stupid Indian wog that she is, sees the suggestion of help from the girl as a slight against her skill as a witch, and is filled with self-righteous anger.

"How dare you look down on _me _you pompous Injraj!"

Of course you don't know what that Indian sounding word is, but she looks angry. That's a plus.

The annoying girl walks back to her desk, sits, and stares at the window for the rest of the class. You can tell she's holding back tears.

* * *

"One of a wizard's most rudimentary skills is levitation, or the ability to make objects fly." The miniscule professor says.

Must be those equal opportunity laws coming into play again. They hire the mentally retarded for groundskeepers, the stutterers for defense, and the twitchy for potions brewing. So, why not the midgets for charms class?

"Do you all have your feathers?" The man continues.

Granger, of all people (who'd have guessed?) picks up her feather and waves it at the professor.

"Good! Now, don't forget the nice wrist movement we've been practicing, hmm?" He pulls out his wand. "The swish and flick! Now, everyone give it a try; swish and flick."

Everyone takes that as their cue to go about butchering the wand movement and you're left to wonder how they do so. The guy is standing right there doing it and they can't copy it? You had to do it from a book!

It's painful really.

The professor starts rambling on about the theory of the charm but you tune it out. What's the point? You've done this charm already, and you're fairly sure you heard him say the word "buffalo" a few moments ago. What could a buffalo possibly have to do with anything?

You look beside you, after hearing the ginger repeatedly saying the charm's incantation wrong, and see him flailing his arms about aimlessly in the air trying the spell.

For some reason the spell doesn't work. You can't imagine why…

Just as you're about to call him on his stupidity, the bitch beats you to it.

She grabs the wand from his hand. "No, no. Stop, stop, stop. You're going to take someone's _eye_ out. Besides, it's pronounced Wing-_gar_-dium Levi-_o_-sa. Make the 'gar' longer."

"Well, you do it then you big know-it-all, if you're so _clever_! Go on!" He snarks back, then turns to you with a grin.

What, are you supposed to be impressed that he's completely useless? Bravo, idiot boy! Bravo!

"_Wingardium Leviosa_!"

The feather in front of her slowly floats upwards until it hits the roof. She keeps it there for a time.

"Splendid, well done Ms. Granger! Well done! Five points to Gryffindor!"

She jerks her attention to you and smirks. She seems to do this every time she 'bests' you in class.

In her moment of gloating, her feather starts to drift back to the floor. You see this as a great moment for some one-upmanship.

"_Locomotor._" You intone.

Instead of falling, the feather suddenly stops midair. Slowly, you sway your arms as if conducting a symphony. Back, and forth. Back, and forth. With each movement of your wand the feather fallows obediently. In the mood to perform for a crowd, you make the feather do a little dance.

After a minute or so of this, you gently drop the feather back down in front of the gob smacked girl.

"My word, what a wonderful performance! Ten points to Gryffindor!" The small man shouts. He then starts mumbling to himself, "Just like his mother…"

As soon as class is over, you make for the door and leave all your classmates behind. Things to do, people to torment.

* * *

After over two months at the castle you still can't understand the appeal of this pumpkin juice. You'd take a glass of orange juice any day of the week over this ultra sweet concoction.

Pumpkin juice, pumpkin pastries, pumpkin pie… _floating_ pumpkins.

They sure do love their pumpkins.

The idiot beside you smacks you on the shoulder. That fucking hurts. Big dumb brute.

"Harry! Did you hear! I made the bucktooth cry!"

The idiot bursts out laughing.

No-one else laughs, but there were a few smiles shared.

The idiot tells everyone at the table her chosen location for her little cry – a girl's bathroom that you've passed many time before – and starts laughing again. Probably thinking of some lame bathroom joke you'd expect.

It's time.

You quietly excuse yourself and make it out of the great hall.

A few corridors outside the great hall you pass Professor Quirrel calmly walking towards his dinner.

This is perfect!

It wasn't your plan at the start, but as the past two months have gone by all the pieces have fallen right into place.

At the beginning, it was all about bringing her down a peg. That has been accomplished many times over by now.

As you continued to observe her however, you reluctantly began to appreciate her talent both as a witch and as a hard worker.

You could use that.

Everyone hates her, you've assured that. No friends.

You could be her 'friend'.

Quite the little ploy you've come up with. Kind of like the plot of the first superman movie, really. Buy up land on the cheap, then destroy all the other land, and your land is now beachfront property. You could make billions!

Wait, that doesn't really fit. Unless Hermione is land, and you intend to sell her.

Bad analogy.

Anyways, what you did do is make everyone hate her, and now you're going to be the 'good guy' and befriend her.

Then you make her do your homework.

Not exactly sure how you're going to do the last part, but you're working on it. It's a work in progress…

The first part is doable at least.

Someone loyal to you, and only you. That sounds good. Very good indeed.

Ah, there's the bathroom.

You look around to see if anyone is watching you.

The hallway is empty.

You slip into the door.

You don't want to be interrupted, so you apply a nifty little locking charm you picked up. That door won't open for five minutes.

What are you going to say to her? Wanna be my friend and do my homework?

…And hang out and stuff?

Probably should have practiced this beforehand.

You turn around and run headfirst into some large smelly object, and promptly bounce off, landing on your ass.

…The hell? What the fuck did you run into…? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING?"

Fight or flight instincts kick in.

Stay or go?

Live, or die with the know it all?

LIVE!

You quickly turn for the door and pull on the doorknob.

Locked.

…Locked. In a room. With a giant… thing.

YOU ARE LOCKED IN A ROOM WITH A GIANT… WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT IS!

While your brain is turned onto panic mode, the enormous beast before you turns around and looks down at you— all the while scratching its head in confusion.

You look at it.

It looks at you.

You stare at each-other for a moment

With both of you suddenly knocked out of your trances by the sound of a loud scream, both you and the monster take that moment to act.

The thing swings its giant club down at you, while you dodge-roll out of the way of the club.

The beast is overextended with its club sticking into the floor.

How fucking strong _is_ that thing?

You see an opportunity and pull out your trusty blade. Never leave home without it.

The distance between you and it is quickly covered and you shove the blade into the beast's side. The entire blade disappears all way to the hilt.

Then _pain_. Pain worse than you have ever experienced.

You find yourself crumpling to the floor with the wind knocked right out of you.

You look up to see that beast looking at you from the other side of the room and growling.

That _thing_ just backhanded you across the room! Across a twenty, fucking, foot room!

Your chest… Fuck… It hurts so fucking much…

You slowly get to your feet and the first thing you do is look for your blade.

It's still there. Handle deep in the monster's side.

Great. No blade. Not that the thing did any fucking _good_! Looks like a little booboo for him.

Fuck, what's he doing now? Oh. Good, he's trying to pry out his club again. So he can smash you to death. Great.

So, all you have is your fists, your wand, and the help of a girl who alternates between screaming and crying.

Fucking great.

So. Fists, wand, and what do you have in your pockets? Change purse. Candy wrappers. Matches. Fea— wait! Matches!

You pull them out and throw them to the floor. You need to concentrate.

Needle. Pointy needle. Iron. BIG! Big needle!

…and for fuck sakes! Could that bitch stop _screaming _for one second!

"Granger, chill the fuck out, I got this!"

She doesn't stop. You slap her in the face. Now she stops.

"I got this!" You repeat.

You quickly transfigure the matches into a dozen relatively big needles.

Not as big as you had _hoped_, but there's not much else you can do now.

"_Locomotor!_" You scream.

A single needle lifts from the ground. Not the dozen you WANT. Fuck it. One well-placed spike into the brain should do it, no?

Aim for the eye.

The needle speeds through the air but not at a speed that could possibly do any real damage. Just enough to stick into the beast and make it realize that you're still alive.

You realize this, of course, a split second before it's about to hit the monster, and in doing so your aim is off.

The beast now has a needle going through both nostrils.

It turns around. This time with club in hand.

Shit.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit!

You smack Granger again.

"You're a genius or whatever! Think of something!"

She doesn't respond.

You smack her again.

That does it.

"What the _hell_ Potter! That hurts!"

"I don't give a FUCK if it hurts. You don't feel pain if you're _DEAD_!"

She looks up and sees the beast.

"A Troll!"

Is that what that is?

"How do we kill it!"

"…Kill? We can't…"

"Yes, we bloody well _can_. That _thing_ just knocked me across this room like it was nothing! It's not fucking around Granger! Now, think!"

"I, uh… Trolls have extremely thick skin, next to nothing can penetrate it."

"I already know that, what else!"

"I don't know, have you tried any spells?"

"I don't know any good ones!"

Why the _fuck_ hasn't Draco taught you any dark magic yet!

At this point the beast has clearly lost interest in watching you two argue, and starts walking towards you.

"Then use bad ones! Do you know the jelly-legs jinx?"

Useless fucking spell.

"Yes."

"Then we both do it over and over again. Maybe it'll work after a while!"

"On three! One, two, three! _Jambis Jeletremblus_, _Jambis Jeletremblus_!"

The spells crash against the troll's tree trunk legs.

Nothing yet.

You and she continue to send the spells.

"_Jambis Jeletremblus_! _Jambis Jeletremblus_! _Jambis Jeletremblus_!"

After a moment where the animal looks utterly confused, it suddenly falls to the ground in a heap.

You are almost instantly at the beast's side pulling out your blade. A moment later you plunge the sharp steel over and over again into the troll's head.

Slice, slice, slice. Stab, stab, stab. Rip, rip, rip.

It's been so _long_ since you've done anything like this… Hell, come to think of it, the last time was with that ruddy bird…

You are so lost in your blade work that you are completely shocked to find the girl pulling you off of the beast.

"It's dead! It's dead Harry! It's okay! We're safe!"

What is she prattling on about? Wait, what, is she _comforting_ you? She thinks you're in shock!

Well, you were hoping to use her loneliness to gain her friendship. Perhaps a traumatic experience works just as well?

What a wonderful thought.

Both of you are now sitting with your backs against the wall. The same wall, in fact, that you crashed into not a minute before.

She is stroking your hair for some reason. Must be a girl thing.

It's not an… unpleasant experience.

But alas, not all things are meant to last.

The door suddenly slams open, and in walks your favorite Professor.

"_Potter_! What is the meaning of this?"

Oh, and your evening was going so well.

* * *

AN:

Originally I had _P__allens Artus _as the incantation for the jelly-leg jinx given none was stated in canon. Latin for 'weak limb'. I wasn't set on the name and **Brother Bludgeon** set me straight

This quote of his felt relevant:

"_Jambis Jeletremblus_ - From the French _Jambes_ (legs), _Gelée_ (jelly) and _Trembler_ (to wobble). I figure, if there's a jinx that simulates weak-kneed cowardice, the French had to have something to do with it."

-** Brother Bludgeon**

Thank you good sir!

-Lineape

P.S. Auctor, no insult intended!


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

* * *

Prick.

See, if any _other_ professor had found you, you would have gotten points and a pat on the head.

The _prick,_ on the other hand, has you assigned two _months_ of detention and docks a hundred points from Gryffindor.

If that's how they reward good deeds, then you don't see the appeal.

You save the bitch's life, and are then punished for it.

Prick.

If he wasn't a vastly more talented wizard than you, then you just might have killed him.

Not important, at least, not right now. Right now you need to corner that slippery little bugger Malfoy and get him to teach you some Dark Magic.

Two months he's managed to talk his way out of teaching you. There is always an excuse: 'I have too much homework,' or, 'The books are in my dorm, and It's too late.'

Does he even have the books at all? Was he talking out his ass? You've been holding off your search for the more... criminal magics; misguided in the illusion that Malfoy could possibly deliver, but clearly he can't.

No matter what, you'll get your answer tonight.

* * *

Of course, noting ever goes to plan. Last night, the headmaster ordered everyone to their common rooms, so instead of an interrogation you had to sleep.

Malfoy had his stay of execution.

That can't keep him from answering today.

"Malfoy!" You call out as he leaves the Great Hall.

He looks around for a moment to see who is attempting to grab his attention. "What? Oh, Hello Harry."

You walk up close to him and say in a low tone of voice, "We need to talk."

"Oh? What about?"

"Things best left unsaid in public."

"Ah, I do so love those types of conversations. Where to then?"

"Follow me," you reply.

The good thing with living in a giant castle is the general excess of space. Classrooms and storage cabinets abound.

Classroom will work.

You enter the room, and just when you are about to start talking he places a finger over his lips to shut you up.

What's he doing now? A spell?

Oh, a silencing spell. How the hell does he know that? That's a spell _way_ above his grade level.

He better start teaching, or you'll kill him in his sleep. No, that would be too difficult. Sneaking past all the other people in Slytherin and all... Best to just kill him here and hide the body.

The door glows yellow for a moment before he speaks. "What the hell Potter? Why the _fuck_ did you save that filthy little mudblood's life?"

Oh, so you're not the only one displeased with how last night turned out?

"I wasn't aware that I had to defer to your judgement in matters about her."

"It's been pretty clear to me what you've been doing to her over the last couple months! So, why the change of heart? Do you _wuv_ her now?"

He's so far off base that you don't know how to respond.

He takes your lack of a response as confirmation.

"That's _it_ isn't it!" He suddenly blurts out, "You're in love with the mudblood!"

Aside the fact that you're incapable of love, perhaps the more glaring error in that logic is the fact that you're _eleven_.

"That's quite the jump in logic there Malfoy," you say. "Has her filthy muggle blood enticed my pre-pubescent arousal, or has she simply hoodwinked me with her feminine wiles?"

"Feminine _wiles_? She's so _ugly_!"

She's not really ugly, but for blood purists like Malfoy, their categorical dislike for muggles is more of an automatic response by now you expect.

"Then _clearly_ I must be under her mudblood spell."

Malfoy laughs. "Indeed. So, why _did_ you save the mudblood then?"

Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood. That boy says it so often that you have to say it yourself from time to time in his presence just to fit in.

Not that you have anything against the mudbloods or anything like that. Oh, there's that word again, it's even taking over your inner thoughts, that can't be good.

"It was an unfortunate series of events really. My plot to assassinate her character had finally come to a climax. You know, with her crying in the bathroom?" Malfoy nodded. "So, I felt one last push was needed. I was going to go down to the bathroom to gloat about her lack of friends, and so I locked the bathroom door just so I wouldn't get caught."

Malfoy groaned. "Bad call on that one."

Bit of an understatement, that.

"Yes. In my defence however, I wasn't expecting there to be a _troll_ in the room."

"So, did you really kill the troll with a transfigured axe and a muggle fireleg?"

You decide not to correct him on the gun reference.

"Oh yes. Except that the transfigured axe was a match turned into a needle, and it was a knife."

"You killed a troll with a needle and a knife? What are you, a muggle?"

"Liberal use of the Jelly-legs jinx may have been used."

"Why the hell _that_ spell?"

"Because _you_ haven't taught me any Dark Magic!" You growl while suddenly stepping into Draco's personal space.

He didn't expect that. He reels back as if slapped.

"Well, you see um..."

"Do you know any or not? I tire of these games, Draco. I will learn them with or without your help, and at this point you are only standing in my way. Which is it?"

You stare at him. You can't see yourself, but you can imagine you look quite intimidating.

"I, um, well. Okay. I've been leading you on."

Leading you...

"Leading me _on_?"

"I don't know any Dark Magic, and I don't have any books on it."

If you could think of a decent way to dispose of the body, you would kill him where he stands.

"So, just to clarify, you have no knowledge, nor do you have any way to acquire any knowledge of the Dark Arts? Is that what you're telling me? I've wasted the last two months?"

"I wouldn't put it _quite_ like that, but basically... yes."

Searching, searching, searching. Nope. No fireplace. You could have figured out a way to get rid of it in there.

"How _would_ you put it then?"

"After we met, my father told me to get to know you, and to promise to get you whatever you needed. I didn't expect you to ask for Dark Arts tutoring!"

What a complete and utter waste of time. You turn to walk away and take a couple of steps.

"Wait!" He shouts from behind you, "The Dark Arts aren't the only way to kill!"

You face him.

"You have my attention. Make it quick."

"Father wouldn't teach me the Dark Arts, but that doesn't mean he didn't teach me any magic at all! I've been learning how to duel since I was old enough to hold a wand!"

"And why wouldn't he teach you Dark Magic?"

"He said that wizards at my age don't have enough skill with a wand to do any worthwhile Dark Magic. It's like trying to teach a first year how to conjure things. You don't have the prerequisite skills."

That actually makes sense, but his word means shit at the moment.

"And you didn't tell me earlier because...?"

"At the time, our relationship was tenuous at best. If I had told you that the Dark Arts were unattainable, you would have just gone to someone else! Would you have done much differently in my place?"

No, but you can't tell him that.

"So, since you can't teach me how to use Dark Magic, can you teach me how to duel? The next time I need to kill a troll I don't fancy using jelly-legs jinxes—Effective as they may be, I feel like an idiot saying I killed a troll in such an unimpressive manner."

"Yes. _That_ I can do. When do you want to start?"

"No time like the present."

"But I said I was going to meet Blaise in—"

"I see this is not a priority for you, good-bye"

"Wait! Fine. Merlin, you're emotional like a girl."

"Me? Emotional?" Oh, the irony.

"Yes. Very much so. Anyways, where do we start?"

"How about with that charm you used on that door to start, and we'll work from there?"

* * *

She's not doing your homework, at least not yet, but she _is _doing most of the hard stuff.

She scours the library to find all the best books, then, she makes all sorts of notes about whatever it is you're looking for, and to top it all off, she is more than willing to share that information.

Hell, you don't even need to _ask_. She offers to give you a copy of her notes and, really, only a fool refuses the notes from the best student in the year.

Well, that statement is misleading. Best student at things that don't actually involve magic. You still kick her ass in the practical aspects.

Ehh... except herbology. The squib is good at that. It's nice really. If he fails in life at being a _real_ wizard – which is likely – he can always tend your garden.

Not good for much else.

Back to her. While it's nice that she helps you do your homework, it's a little annoying how she also follows you around like a lost puppy everywhere you go.

People give you strange looks whenever this happens (which is quite often really), but all it takes is a shrug and an eye roll and people think you're merely tolerating her presence—which you are.

With her tagging along it gets a tad difficult to do anything even remotely interesting, and all she want to do is _read_. That's just not for you.

You do get to ditch her at the library from time to time, but you need to be sneaky about it. If she see's you attempting to leave, then she will scramble to grab all her things and then she will sprint after you.

When you assembled your plan to alienate her and make her dependant on you for all her social interactions, you grossly underestimated how much of your time she would seek.

Not that you want her talking to anyone else or anything, you've put far too much work into this for others to use her as well.

The work is ongoing as well.

Constantly your 'friends' will attempt to make nice with her ("If you're one of Harry's friends now, we might as well be too!"), so you must take them aside and poison their attitudes against her.

She's yours, not theirs. You never really 'got' the concept of sharing. Well, unless they're sharing their things with you. You're totally alright with that.

So, as nice as it is to have someone doing most of your work, not everything is double rainbows and unicorns. That is a weird thought... moving on.

With all your lovely detentions you have little free time any more. Hell, without her doing your work you can't imagine getting all the essays done properly.

Oh, and she edits too. That's a nice feature.

She gives you her notes, you write a rough draft, she edits it, and you rewrite it in your own handwriting.

Flitwick _loves_ your essay on the differences between jinxes and hexes.

She's like a portable homework machine. High maintenance though... Okay, she's a portable high maintenance homework machine that's always there.

Perhaps you can train her in the future to be a tad more self-sufficient so she wastes less of your time? Wait, but then you run the risk of her not coming back.

Perhaps you'll just need to endure her constant presence wherever you go? Lovely.

Well, at least she goes to bed early. She needs her sleep to 'keep her mind fresh,' and that works out nicely for you.

Means you can explore the castle still.

* * *

The library is always quiet, but in the dead of night it takes silence to a whole other level.

The kinds of books you want to read would be frowned upon for daytime reading. That's not to say that they're restricted books by any standard – in fact these books are open to anyone – it's just that it looks bad for an upstanding gentleman such as yourself to be reading a dozen books on the history of the Dark Arts.

No actual Dark Magic in the books, but it has confirmed what Draco told you.

Unlike every fantasy story in existence, the dark side isn't easy.

It requires hard work and discipline. That, and the magic involved requires a level of skill and control that you do not have as of yet.

You'll get there you're sure, but not for quite a few years.

You need to learn to walk before you can run or some such rot.

As you make your way out of the book-filled room, a little used section of the library catches your eye.

Restricted section.

Probably all the good stuff is sitting in there.

Sure, you can't do any of the actual spellwork, but it would be interesting to take a peek at what you'll likely be capable of in a few years time.

You pick a random book off the shelf and suddenly it _screams_!

What the fuck!

You hastily shove the book back into its place and run like hell.

What was that? Was that a security precaution?

Shit. If you had a weaker constitution, you might just have needed a fresh pair of trousers!

You wing open the door and start to make it down the hallway, losing little speed in the process, that is, until someone grabs your wrist and transfers all your momentum until you and he are swinging around in a fast circle.

He suddenly lets go and you fall on your ass.

So is this the caretaker? You and that cat have unfinished business.

The two of them quickly start a quick back and forth conversation between themselves.

"So, what have we here, brother o' mine?"

"I don't know, dear brother, but what I do know is that I am dizzy."

"Oh? That's what you get for spinning around in circles."

"Indeed, brother, indeed."

Not the caretaker.

"So, the question remains, what do we have here?"

"Looks like an ickle firstie! Running away from a screaming book!"

"Oh, my! Why, I remember back in our first year when we did the same thing!"

"Why yes! Good times, good times! But this firstie, he did so _far_ earlier than we ever attempted!"

"So true, brother! So true! A prankster prodigy!"

"Who is it, I wonder?"

You suddenly see a face not a few inches from your own.

"Merlin's sagging testicles! It's Harry Potter!"

"Is it really? And what has Harry Potter been doing out late at night?"

As quickly as the little conversation starts, it ends.

What, are they looking for an explanation?

You wait a few more seconds, but they're not saying anything.

"I was just... going for a walk."

"A walk!" They chorused.

"I've been on many a walk in my day."

"As have I brother, as have I!"

"But nary have I ever walked at such a pace as the great Harry Potter has!"

"And with screaming books in his wake to boot!"

Again they stop and stare at you.

Yeah... the 'I was on a walk' defence doesn't work when you're running away from a screaming book in the dead of night.

"Uh... okay, I wasn't going for a walk."

"I knew it! Smelt fishy his story did!"

"Smelt fishy like a smelly fish!"

"Well put brother."

"Thank you."

A noise down the hall suddenly jolts the two of them out of their little world. They start conversing in low tones.

"Check the map Fred!"

"Right away! I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!"

The piece of parchment in this Fred's hands slowly changes into a passable representation of the Hogwart's castle.

And here you thought the castle couldn't be mapped.

"Hurry!"

"It Filch! He's right down the hall!"

"Lead the way!"

One of the twins—you're not sure which—grabs your arm and pulls you along with them.

"Come Harry!"

Over the next few minutes, the three of you sprint through countless winding corridors and through numerous secret passages until you find yourself directly in front of the Fat Lady.

After saying the password the two of them pull you into the common room and sit you down in a chair directly across from the sofa they chose.

"Well that was fun!"

"What a nice night for a stroll! It's fun to 'walk' like Harry does!"

"And our little guest made for some interesting company."

"Yes he did, yet he still hasn't given us his story."

"Ah, let him be, brother. Does it really matter why? He was making mischief no matter what he was up to."

"So true."

Good. So you don't have to tell them what you were up to. That could have been problematic.

"So... what was that map thing you guys used?" You say.

"Oh! He talks!"

"And so well! You could almost imagine he does it all the time!"

They're deflecting.

"Yes, I do talk well don't I? But as interesting as my voice is, I find that map far more so."

"Oh, this little thing?" He says while waving it back and forth.

"Yes. That thing."

"You noticed it did you?"

"That he did brother, otherwise he probably wouldn't have brought it up!"

"See, that's why he gets paid the big bucks. He's the smart one. I, on the other hand get the ladies, being the handsome one and all."

Deflecting again.

"So about that map?" You ask for the third time.

"Persistent little bugger, isn't he brother?"

"Indeed! We must tell him something however, even if it's a complete lie, just so he gets off our backs!"

"It probably works better when you don't say that it's a lie out loud."

"Curses! Another plot foiled! Oh well, might as well tell him then, eh?"

"Fine, fine. This is a map."

"Well put brother."

They stop talking again. What, is that it? That's all they're going to say?

"What else does it do?"

"Oh my, he grew up as a muggle! He must not know how maps work!"

"Oh no! Well, just so you know, a map lets you know what an area looks like!"

"I know that already!"

"Then why did you ask?"

"It's not like there is some secret feature on this map that allows it to locate anyone in the castle."

"Surely not! And it definitely doesn't show all the secret passages!"

"Most definitely not! And it doesn't make toast!"

"That would be absurd!"

"So... It's a map of the castle that shows all the secret passages and on top of that it tells you where everyone is?"

"It makes toast too!"

"No it doesn't, that would be a completely useless feature."

Of course, he says this as he takes a bite out of a piece of toast.

"Can I... see it?"

"Nope."

"Why not!"

"Only a properly licensed prankster like the two of us can use such an awesome device such as this."

"Yes, you would have to join us on numerous pranking expeditions before we could feel comfortable in your map holding skills."

"Quite right."

"You're... recruiting me?"

That is unexpected.

"You're the most skilled wizard in your year."

"Every year we give one invitation—"

"—and one invitation only, to the most promising wizard of the year."

"Last year Cho said no, but we have high hopes for you!"

"Of course, you wouldn't be able to do much now, but I'm sure with a little polish from us, we could have you working your wand like a pro!"

"Oh, that sounds dirty, don't say stuff like that."

"Sorry brother!"

"So, what do you say future prankster-in-arms?"

"Yes, what say you?"

Extra training and access to that map?

"Yes."

* * *

AN: Another chapter down! Thank **Brother Bludgeon** for another wonderful job at betaing (prompt too! I finished the chapter, and thirty minutes later he's got it all edited and schtuff!)

Hey to all the cool cats at DLP (I'm already a member _Dan_ kthx!)

-Lineape (or PinstripedPajamas if you so prefer.)


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

* * *

These detentions are driving you crazy—Okay well, _crazier_ at any rate.

...It's nice that you have such a high opinion of your own sanity. That probably says a bit about you.

Hmmm... Went a bit off topic there. See, the detentions may have been at least _bearable_ at the start, but after the _thirty seventh_ one, well, it's fair to say that just about anyone in your predicament would feel about the same level of strain as you.

You pick up your bag, exit the Potions classroom, and make your way to the great hall.

Classes are a going well these days. Your grades have stabilized near the top compared to your peers.

She _still_ won't do your homework, but given her innate sense of fair play, you doubt she ever will.

At least she takes the brunt of the workload. With classes, detention, and now your new 'friendship' with the twins, you have difficulties fitting all of it in.

Ah, the twins. You don't get any enjoyment from their humour in the classical sense, but their combined abilities to make others laugh are, thankfully, not their only skills. With them, you get to be a colossal dick, and as long as what you do is 'funny' then anything you do is fair game.

You make a turn at a busy junction.

Your novice status as a wizard even allows you to make certain 'mistakes' from time to time that may 'ruin' a prank (or, in your opinion, make them many levels of magnitude better). Like, instead of sneaking a _nose_-hair _growing_ potion into a certain chubby (and completely useless) wizard's drink, you instead accidentally swap it with a _head_-hair _removing_ potion.

Oops! Totally unintentional! They're practically the same damn potion aside a couple of direction changes while brewing! How were _you_ supposed to know this? You're only a first year!

The fatty looks ridiculous as a cancer survivor lookalike. It's just one more failure for Neville Longbottom. He can't even get cancer, die, and make the world a better place in his absence.

The lack of hair is a constant reminder of his failure in that regard.

It couldn't have gone better if you had planned it... Okay, fuck it, that prank was awesome, and it's just you and your thoughts, who do you have to convince?

Next time, you'll have to find something more permanent; sadly, hair re-grows. Ohh! Teeth don't! The toothless, old barman in that filthy tavern proved that well enough. Hmmm...

Back to the topic at hand, you don't botch _all_ your pranks. Can't have the twins thinking you're incompetent, can you?

No, to them you're the sidekick for which they have always yearned. It's just so much _easier_ to get away with things when you're not around for key moments, no? With the addition of a third member to their team, they always have a built in alibi ("How could we have _possibly _thrown them through the open Slytherin common door?" "We were playing Quiddich!" "We won too you know! Even _with_ that lousy McLaggen running his mouth the whole game!").

You follow the steady stream of students heading for their dinners.

Now that you're free for the rest of the evening, what are you going to do? Why, another prank, of course!

This one's has been brewing for a long time too. Literally.

Essentially, the twins have put together a fun little joke after finding an old recipe for what was labelled as an 'inebriation tonic'.

Booze, in other words. Magic booze. Booze so strong in fact, that even uncle Vernon would have fallen down drunk after a miniscule shot—Him, with his impressive girth. Well, impressive in a negative way.

The potion is strong, but also almost tasteless. It does however have a minor odour that a trained nose could hypothetically detect. Something akin to a mixture of vanilla and cinnamon.

So the plan is as follows: the twins brew the stuff, convince the elves to slip it into everyone's drinks (butterbeer specifically in order to more properly hide the smell), and watch the drunken debauchery in your completely sober state. The twins mostly have this one handled. Really, all your role entails is levitating a banner that's hidden behind the staff table. Written on it in bold red letters is the phrase 'Mischief Managed'.

It's once again a reference to that incredible map of theirs. After the 'probationary period' which lasted a _whole_ two days they have reluctantly allowed you access to the thing.

You make good use of it too, studying the ever-changing layout of the castle. They only allow you the use of it while in their presence, so you don't get to do half the things with it you want, but it's better than frustrating yourself with your nightly explorations. Complete waste of time that is.

Here you are. The Great Hall. Here's where the all magic will happen. Ah, puns.

A twin winks at you as you pass.

So the operation is a go. Excellent.

You find a seat near the end of your table nearest the staff one. You need to be close to properly levitate the banner.

The wait for food is always unbearable, but this time the wait is much more so.

Oh, maybe some stupid girl will get pregnant in the drunken haze that is soon to follow! That's something the twins never considered. Wouldn't that be nice; nothing really ruins the magical school experience like an unplanned pregnancy.

What does she do? Does she keep the little bastard? Go through school known as a whore? Nip the problem in the bud—Ha ha, nip. Puns, gotta love 'em. What _is_ the magical equivalent to an abortion?

_Killite Fetusium!_

Well anyways, it sucks for her either way.

Even better, maybe there'll be more than one! Who knows, it's a bunch of drunk and horny teenagers, there could be dozens!

You're pulled out of your thoughts by the appearance of your meal. As you look down your table, you note that beside every plate is a goblet, each filled to the brim with butterbeer and (hopefully) the secret ingredient.

You lift your goblet up to your mouth. You sniff it as you bring it up to your lips—keeping them closed.

To anyone looking at you it would appear as if you were taking a drink. You are _not_, because it smells like vanilla and cinnamon.

So the wait begins. A great thing about this potion is that it takes a few minutes for it to kick in. That means that no one is going to instantly get drunk and call attention to the prank. At least, not yet.

Everyone is drinking. Students and teachers alike.

Notably absent amongst the teachers are Snape and Dumbledore. Probably off snogging somewhere.

Huh, speak of the devil. Here they come now. The two of them walk to the staff table conversing in hushed tones.

Snape glares at you as he passes. What else is new?

Christ, you're getting your punishment, what else does he want?

The two late arrivals take their seats.

No one is getting drunk yet, but they will be soon.

Wait!

Out of the corner of your eye you see that the first student has been affected. Some Hufflepuff seventh year girl is groping the boy beside her. _Someone's_ getting lucky tonight.

Her hair is changing colours. That isn't from the potion, is it? Oh, the twins better not have fucked up the potion. If all this prank does is make everyone get funky hair then you quit this pranking business.

You look around and see dozens of students affected.

With that as your cue, you decide to do your part.

You point your wand at the staff table and quietly levitate the banner.

"Albus, no!" a voice cries, "Don't drink!"

You look away from your spell and see Snape knocking the goblet out of the headmaster's hand.

Damn it, you were hoping to see what a senile and drunk Dumbledore would do. Fuck! Shit! The banner is falling down! Shit! That's what you get for taking your mind off the spell!

The banner falls down directly on top of the staff table, draping itself over a handful of teachers.

At that moment you see Snape looking at you. Your wand is out.

FUCK!

He sneers at you before walking to the headmaster who has just freed himself from his cloth prison.

Everything goes black.

* * *

You wake up in an unfamiliar location.

Lots of white in here.

You lift your head and attempt to take a look around; attempt being the operative term because your neck fucking _kills_.

Feeling the pain, your first reaction is to make it stop, so you drop your head back down to the pillow and let out a groan.

Where are you?

Last thing you remember is that little prank and then... You're here.

Okay, ceiling, that's normal. Walls? Oh. There's a white sheet going around your bed, you're in the infirmary.

Jesus, your neck hurts, where's the fucking morphine? Okay, it's not _that_ bad, but still, where are the drugs woman! If you're going to be bored to death in a hospital bed, then you might as well 'feel no pain', or whatever people say. Never tried drugs (which is strange as an actor, even at your age), but you're not averse to trying them in the future.

"Ah, so you're awake."

You run your hands over the table at your side, find your glasses, and put them on. You lift your head again and wince, but at a quick glace you see that it's your headmaster.

Fuck. Snape saw you with your wand. Great, another two months of detention.

"Yes, I am awake. Unfortunately this is a bad time, I can't exactly see you at the moment, you know?" Might as well delay the inevitable and make him go away.

"Oh? Your neck hurts does it? Yes, I would imagine that it would. You were knocked out in the brawl that ensued after your little prank."

Shit.

"Prank sir?" Play dumb, deny, deny, deny.

"No use denying it dear boy, Professor Snape saw you with your wand pointed at the banner that was draped over my head."

Yup, you're fucked.

The old coot carries on, "Quite the feat of magic that was. Not many first year students could levitate a banner that heavy."

Fuck off. Compliment my skills, then what? Punish me? Go away.

"Could you come back at a later time? It might a bit difficult to for me to defend myself when I can't even look you in the eye."

"Excellent point!"

Moments later you hear the sound of cloth ruffling and suddenly the back of your bed lifts and you find yourself looking into the eyes of your headmaster who is pointing his wand at you.

He looks at you for a moment before grimacing and lowering his wand. He looks at area behind your bed.

"There we are," he says, "Now we are on equal ground."

Yeah, that's just peachy.

"Um, thanks."

"Don't mention it! So, what to do with you now, Harry?"

"How about a pain killer?"

"All in due time, but that's not what I was referring to. I was asking about what to do about this prank." He claps his hands together. "But of course, you already know that, being the intelligent little boy you are. You just don't want to talk about what you did."

"All I did was levitate a bit of cloth! That's hardly worth punishing..."

"Oh Harry, you may be intelligent, but I think it's fair to say that I too, am intelligent. I wasn't born yesterday, after all." He chuckles. "Oh, age humour," he says, "But all jokes aside, it's obvious that you had a hand in today's foolishness."

Deny, deny, deny.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Must we really play this game, Harry? I know you were involved, you know you were involved, it's really quite silly to keep talking around the issue." He starts to rub his beard. "And just so you know, the severity of your punishment depends on how cooperative you are. You don't want another two months of detention, do you?"

No, you really don't.

"No," you say between clenched teeth.

"Excellent. So, you admit to helping the twins with their prank?"

"Yes," you practically growl.

"Good, good. I'm glad you were willing to 'roll over', as they say, on your friends, I wasn't sure of their involvement before, but this confirms it."

What? Wait, _what?_

"But you said..."

And that's the moment when the greasy bastard slides in between the curtains. "Oh my, that wasn't your intention? What a shame, this may affect your working relationship with them in the future, no?" He taps his finger on his chin. "Pity, they were _such_ a good influence on you."

Fucking _Snape_.

The two teachers look at each-other.

"Professor Snape, I told you that I would handle this. Please attend to your students."

"Of course, Headmaster." He sneers at you as he walks away.

"Prick," you mutter.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing sir."

"Right. So now to your punishment." The man scratches his cheek. "There was a bit of damage done tonight Harry, and we can't ignore that, even if you were extremely cooperative afterward."

Damage? Yes! At least _something_ came out of this mess.

"What _kind_ of damage?"

"Don't worry, nothing that couldn't be fixed. A few broken chairs, a mess of epic proportions from all the spilled food. There were a few bloodied noses in the fights, but aside that, nothing else." He fits you with a smile. "Lucky for you that Professor Snape and I were able to subdue the students. It took some doing, but a horde of drunken teenagers is no match for our combined talents."

...That's it? No broken bones? No virtues stolen?

"An additional two weeks of detentions will be placed on top of your current streak. With the rather large mess that Argus has to clean up, I feel it's only fitting that he be the one to supervise some of them, and of course, you will be helping the cleanup of the hall tomorrow when you feel better. Also, Professor Snape has been kind enough to agree to supervise the others."

_Fuck_.

The old man gets to his feet. "Sleep tight," he says before exiting your room, "I hope your neck feels better soon. I'll have Madam Pomphrey come in with a pain numbing potion."

A moment later, the back of your bed slowly drifts down.

Bad day.

* * *

AN: Things are moving along. Shorter chapter today, but that has more to do with pacing than anything. I'll keep with the longer 3k+ format for chapters.

Thanks again to **Brother Bludgeon **who once again had the chapter betaed very quickly.

-LineApe


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

* * *

Your whole life you have felt nothing. Well, nothing that is, but anger or greed.

_This_ is what anger feels like.

Normally, you feel… nothing. Nothing at all. You're an empty pit of emotion.

Right _now_ however, you feel this white hot rage _bubbling_ in your veins.

It's like… _nothing_ you've ever felt before.

You felt anger with the Dursleys, no doubt, but this is different.

You didn't know better then. With the way you were raised, you were practically an animal striking back at his abusive masters.

Your killing of the Dursleys happened out of necessity, not out of some profound hate. Not that you didn't glean some level enjoyment out of their deaths. On the contrary, their deaths will be forever ingrained in your mind as a defining moment in your life. But you feel the need to reiterate that their deaths were not a product of some deep hatred you felt for them. You were simply unable to understand that kind of thing at the time.

Not so now. You're not the mindless house slave or beaten puppy you were back then. You've lived since then.

You like to think of yourself as posh and sophisticated, and you do so because that's exactly what you are—everything the Dursleys had ever wished to be.

Rich.

Famous.

Intelligent.

Everyone says such nice things about you. Well. Aside from the prick, but you'll get to that.

Yes, the Dursleys would be quite jealous of your station. They would also be very angry at the fact that it's _you_ and not _them_ basking in all the attention. Anger. You understand that now.

The feeling is intoxicating.

You wrap yourself in the sensation like a warm blanket.

Most days, you pride yourself on your stoicism, but in these rare cases where you feel as you do now (not that you've felt anger in such abundance _before_), you wonder why.

Why would you ever wish for this to end?

Does the crack addict want their high to simply vanish?

Okay, bad analogy.

Does the teen wish for his first orgasm to end?

Hmmm, you should really stop using analogies that are entirely foreign to you.

Unfortunately, this feeling will not last but, while it's here, the feeling gives you an uncontrollable urge to act.

Severus Snape needs to die.

Plain and simple.

This dark feeling in your soul demands it.

Before this most recent incident, through his superior mastery of magic, you had thought that he would be nigh untouchable.

Foolish thinking on your part.

You don't need to play _fair_. This isn't an honor duel. You're not going to walk ten paces and turn.

That's absurd.

You've killed before, and you sure as hell didn't know how to use magic _then_.

Well, aside the troll, but the killing blow was done without magic there too.

No, you don't need magic to kill Snape— Just some careful planning and a fair touch of ingenuity.

So, how to do it?

* * *

While on the inside you're a roaring inferno of rage – ready to explode at any moment – on the outside it's business as usual.

You go to classes and watch the idiot-who-shall-not-be-named blow up, melt or otherwise obliterate his cauldrons in new and creative ways.

You also get to see said explosions from a wonderful vantage point.

The front row seat (figure of speech, you're still in the back of the classroom) was gifted to you because the bastard decided to pair up the two of you for the next couple of months.

Lucky you.

He said something about the cross contamination of the moron's failed potions ruining his best student's work.

Captain Explosion (this nickname amuses you) got the last laugh this last time though (well it wasn't _really_ a laugh, as it sounded more like a sobbing apology, but in your head it sounds much better that way). The force of the blast sent globs of the gooey stuff into all the cauldrons in the room.

The professor (if you can call him that) had no choice but to make your next class a repeat.

You wonder how he'll screw it up next time.

Anyways, and back on topic, you do your assigned detentions and grit your teeth (so to speak, as there are no outward signs of your intense anger), and live your life like any other first year Hogwarts student with aplomb.

So, while you play the repentant little boy to everyone you see ("I am _so_ sorry Professor McGonagall, nothing like this will _ever_ happen again!") every single stray thought is on how you will do it.

It. The deed. The dirty deed.

Okay, those terms could be interpreted in any number of ways.

Okay, killing Snape. There. No confusion.

How do you do it?

Magic is out for the most part. You don't know many useful spells.

Kill him in his sleep? And what, risk being caught out of the dorm on the night when a professor with a known grudge against you dies of steel poisoning? Right in the jugular, you know…

They're wizards, do they have protective wards? You walk into his room when he's sleeping and instantly he wakes up and kills you because you have tripped an alarm of some sort.

You should probably research that.

Meh, just get Hermione to look into it. She'll give you the cliff notes.

You sit at the great hall table and keep working the details around in your head.

Well, at least _this_ time you know not to use the fucking flight charm in combat. That was fucking useless.

It has to be stealthy. It has to be unexpected.

Poisons are clearly out. He caught that prank like it was nothing.

Owls fly in from every direction and one lands directly in front of Neville Longbottom carrying a red envelope.

So how else can you kill him? Make it look like an accident? How? Light his bedroom on fire? Yeah, real original there Harry.

And a stone castle wouldn't really burn all too well you guess.

Hmm, what about—

"NEVILLE HARFANG LONGBOTTOM! _ANOTHER_ CAULDRON? THAT MAKES _SIX THIS YEAR_!

"I DIDN'T RAISE YOU TO BE SUCH A FAILURE! YOU HAD BETTER PREPARE FOR _QUITE_ THE RECKONING WHEN YOU COME HOME FOR THE SOLSTICE YOUNG MAN!

"NONE OF YOUR STUPID PLANTS, NONE OF YOUR LITTLE TOYS, AND NOT A SINGLE GIFT! _SIX_ CAULDRONS IS MORE THAN ENOUGH SOLSTICE GIFTS, DON'T YOU THINK?

"BE A MAN, FOR MERLIN'S SAKE. YOU'RE THE HEAD OF A NOBLE HOUSE! ACT LIKE IT!

"AUGUSTA LONGBOTTOM"

Whoa, what the fuck was that?

The entire room is silent. Not even Neville makes a sound. Funny, you'd expect the little shit to cry at this point.

Ah, he's going for the whole catatonic state thing. Will he cry when he breaks out of it then? That will be fun to—

"P.S. _ANOTHER_ CAULDRON IS BEING SENT IN THE POST. IF THIS ONE MEETS THE SAME FATE AS THE PREVIOUS _SIX_, THEN YOU HAD BETTER HOPE THAT THE BLAST TAKES YOU WITH IT, FOR I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH MORE ANGRY I CAN GET."

The silence in the room doesn't last, within seconds the whole room is laughing deafeningly.

You see that Draco is very pleased with this development, and is trying very hard to keep himself seated in his chair in the midst of the loud guffaws he's letting off.

And _that's _when Neville starts to cry.

Wow, just wow. That boy is a failure to the name of all human beings.

Wait.

Could you…

Fuck, is it really that easy?

* * *

It was another of _those_ nights. The weeping kept you up once again, and you were only able to get a few hours in.

Inconsiderate prick. Cry, and make the others miss sleep too?

The alarm clock wakes everyone up and you are first one out of there. You don't have the time to comfort the loser.

You don't even tie your shoes in your haste to escape.

You'll get it done in the common room.

Down the stairs you go.

At the bottom of the stairs waits your little homework machine.

"Hermione," you say, "Good morning!"

Okay, got to make her feel wanted and all that stuff. You smile at her, and she smiles back brightly.

"Good morning Harry. Are you ready for Charms?"

Why, is she looking to follow you to class again?

Well, it's a little early for class, but technically yes, aside your shoes you _are_ ready for class.

"I am," you say hesitantly.

"Great! Let's walk there together!" she says while pulling your arm.

The fuck! Class isn't for another three hours!

Your shoes are untied and you trip on your laces. The both of you land in a heap on the floor.

Fucking klutz.

Two of the last people in to world you want to speak to decide to chime in.

"Oh, that looks like it hurt, brother-o-mine."

"That it _does_ brother-o-mine"

Great. You haven't uttered a single word to them with them since the incident, and now of all the times is _clearly_ the best for a chat given that you're sprawled on the floor looking like an idiot.

"Hey guys," you say before turning to Hermione, "Maybe a rain check on that walk?"

She nods, but she looks a bit disappointed. "Okay."

"Alright. Hey, maybe we can meet in the library after I'm done talking to the twins? I need to look up the potion we're doing in class so that Neville doesn't blow up our cauldron again, you know?"

She nods again and walks off.

She's smart, and at the same time really stupid. That works out well for you.

You look at your two partners in crime.

"What can I do for you two gentlemen?" you ask.

"Gentlemen?"

"Us?"

"_Never_!" they cried at the same time.

"Right. What can I do for you two scoundrels?"

"Better."

"Much!"

"You see Harry, the reason that we can no longer go by the term gentlemen—"

"—is because we are no longer gentle in the eyes of the law—"

"—Teachers he means."

"Right. We received a month each in detentions."

"That we did."

"And given that only those with inside information of our operation would know of our involvement."

"That would be either you or us, if you were wondering."

"We've been wondering—"

"—as of late."

"Are you a rat?"

"He smells like a rat."

"That's just circumstantial evidence. Ronnikins has Percy's pet rat, and Harry sleeps in that room, remember?"

"Ah, yes. So, Harry. What of it?"

Shit. What do you say? Dumbledore and Snape tricked you? Would they believe you?

Okay. You're an amazing actor. Use that.

Look sad and scared at the same time. Guilty, but also with a touch of frustration at being wrongly accused.

Piece of cake.

"I—I know it looks bad," you say. The little stutter is a nice touch.

"It does," One of them responds.

"It's not what it looks like! Honest!" you say, adding a little bit of franticness to your act, "I didn't mean to give you guys up!"

"But you did do it all the same."

"I got tricked! Dumbledore said he knew everything already and that if I lied about it he'd extend my detentions the more I lied!" Shit's even true. "And so he asked me something like 'So you were a part of the twins prank?' and I said yes."

"Crafty old coot, isn't he brother?"

"Crazy to boot."

"Crazy like a fox."

"Yes he is." He makes eye contact with you. "Go on Harry."

You continue, "After I said yes, he then told me that he didn't have proof that two were involved, but I had confirmed it." You look at both of them and ready the tears. "I'm so sorry!"

You sniff a little and cry a little. Not at all like Neville and his endless waterfall. You're a kicked puppy, not a five year old girl.

After a moment of silence, you feel an arm around your shoulder.

Success!

"Remember back in first year when we fell for a trick like that?"

"Ah, you refer of course to the great knickers theft of '89."

"Everyone got a kick out of that one!"

"None more than us!"

"No, I'm pretty sure Dumbledore was laughing his arse off after he'd swindled us into a week of detentions."

"So don't feel bad Harry, it happens to the best of us."

You paste on a smile. "Thanks guys, I didn't know if you'd believe me."

"Believe you we do."

"So, now the most important question we need to ask you is: what the hell you doing on the floor there mate?"

Ugh. Stupid shoe laces.

You point to your undone laces.

"Ah, tripped on your lace, did you?"

"Yeah," you mutter. You start to tie the left one.

"Don't bother; we've got a neat trick for you."

One of them pulls out a wand and points it at your left shoe.

"_Omslag Kant_!"

Your shoelaces spring together and tie themselves.

"And your other foot, sir?"

You put forward the other foot and watch him repeat the spell.

"That seems extremely useful," you say, "Where do I learn it?"

"Come with us, we'll teach you all you need to know."

"Yeah. Let's get you learning again so that the next prank doesn't fail so spectacularly!"

You agreed to meet with Hermione in the library later, but she's a big girl, and she can handle herself.

That, and she'll probably do the research for an hour or so. When you're done with the twins you can meet up later and find out what she's learned.

That's what she's there for. Making your life easier.

You sure as hell don't keep her around for the company.

* * *

Potions class, potions class.

The class that was once your favorite is now your least.

It's that damned teacher. He stalks around the classroom giving all the Gryffindors nasty looks, you and Neville especially.

No matter. He'll be dealt with soon enough.

Two turns clockwise, and another counter.

Drop in the ginger root whole.

It was a very productive hour with the twins. They taught you the Shoe tying charm, and a few other basic 'every wizard should know' charms.

Good-bye toothbrush.

Also, the research that Hermione did has been invaluable. You now know what has been going wrong with the potion.

You also know how to make it worse.

_Much_ worse.

You put in five drops of dragon blood.

Oops! That was supposed to be two!

You're so _clumsy_.

Your potion is not the color that it's supposed to be. Oh well.

Curses! Whatever shall you do?

When no-one is looking, you add another ginger root. That should do the trick.

Neville has no clue what's about to happen. He's too busy chopping the Mongolian Flying Cat's tail into inch pieces instead of slicing the long way as it's supposed to be.

Idiot. It doesn't matter; this thing will blow _well_ before that could possibly affect anything.

You should have about ten seconds before it starts boiling out of control.

Okay, time to get ready before you have to act frantic for the second time today.

Here we go.

Bubble bubble slosh.

Neville looks at the potion with a dumb look on his face. What else is new?

Well, guess it's up to you to let everyone know it's going to go pear shaped.

"It's about to explode!" you scream. That should get their attention.

Snape quickly turns towards you, and from the look in his eye, he knows _exactly_ how dangerous this situation _really_ is.

You've never seen it happen before now, but that man looks genuinely afraid.

He pulls out his wand and sprints towards the table.

Phase two of your plan begins.

Now.

"_Omslag Kant_," you practically whisper.

It's a very weak spell. It doesn't need the control yelling an incantation will give.

Your shoe laces, which are not on your shoes, are in fact currently tied to the legs of your table and the table in front of yours.

They shoot together and tie themselves directly in front of where Snape is about to run.

Shoelaces are a nice substitute for a trip wire; at least, you're pretty sure they are. This is proven true when Snape falls face-first onto the ground.

He lets out a loud groan as he lies there.

That doesn't stop your potion from bubbling.

Time to act afraid.

You spring up from your chair, and as you get up, you _accidentally_ knock the table quite hard with your thighs.

Oh no, will the cauldron fall?

It does. You watch it tip over and roll off the table.

Then you hear screaming.

_Loud_ screaming.

_Painful_ screaming.

_Wonderful_ screaming.

You were at quite the distance when you head the Dursleys screams so you didn't get a chance to really enjoy them, but you imagine they were much like this.

The soon to be dead man quickly gets control of himself and as he gets to his feet you see the full extent of the damage.

His left arm is sizzling. Fuck that, his left _hand_ is gone! That's awesome!

You see the flesh _melting_ off. In a couple places you can see the fucking _bone_!

You look at his face. Splotches of skin are disappearing before your very eyes.

Speaking of eyes. Snape is missing half of his right one.

He casts a spell and a powerful spray of water appears at the tip of his wand. He aims it at his face for a couple of seconds before pointing his wand at his desk.

And he said there would be no foolish wand waving in this class! Ha!

The students in its path duck out of the way as a bag of some kind flies into his outstretched hand.

He pours the contents of the bag on his face and arm before promptly collapsing on the floor.

No-one moves for a good twenty seconds or so before your little pet starts screaming. Then the other girls join in.

A few of the more squeamish boys add to the chorus.

You remember respecting Dumbledore for his ability to inflict that terrible school song on everyone's eardrums, but this is just so much worse. Worse and better all at once.

It's so gratifying when a plan comes together.

Who will be your _new_ potions professor you wonder?

* * *

AN:

Thanks goes to **Brother Bludgeon** for getting this beta'd for me.

-Lineape


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

* * *

For what feels like the twentieth time this year, you make your way down the stairs from the dorm after another night of missed sleep and sniffing.

Christ, that boy. You'd brutally murder him for all the missed sleep, but you imagine that his 'Gran' will do that well enough for you over the break.

At least, that's what her second howler implies.

You're sure that he'll come back to school the same loser he's always been. Well, maybe he'll be a little more useless and jumpy for when the new potions professor starts.

That'll make for an interesting introduction:

'Hello, I'm your new potions Professor, and who would you be?'

'I'm Neville Longbottom. I half-melted our old professor, but I hope we can still be friends!'

You're not sure who will be jumpier in that class. Will it be the student who was harshly chastised for his part in melting a professor, or the new professor who's next in line to be melted?

Interesting indeed, but sadly, that meeting is still a ways off.

Until then, Dumbledore has decided to teach until the winter hols.

While you're on the topic of the old coot, it would be prudent to note that while he's clearly a gifted teacher, he is also a right bastard.

After his first potions class, the Headmaster took you aside and told you that 'in keeping with the holiday spirit' he was canceling the rest of your detentions save a final one with the groundskeeper.

While this sounded like a good thing at the time, it has actually turned out to be quite the opposite.

Last night you decided to share excellent news with the twins, but instead of a positive – and completely useless – platitude, they both just shared a look before telling you what's really going on.

Apparently, every now and then the Headmaster assigns a detention in the Forbidden Forest for his most unruly of students in hopes of 'scaring them straight' or some such rot.

And you are this child.

Looking back, you realize that when he notified you of this detention he was unwilling to look you in the eyes. Guilt perhaps, or maybe… does he suspect something?

Surely not. If he had any evidence whatsoever of your involvement in Snape's 'tragic' accident, he would have done far more than assign you a detention. A jail cell sounds more likely in that situation.

Regardless, there is no evidence to be found either way. With the commotion involved after what happened, it was child's play to get the laces back on your shoes.

You're safe on the potion front as well—its acidic nature was blamed on Neville's ineptitude.

He really _is_ that bad after all.

So unless Dumbledore has a way to look into your mind and read your thoughts, you're pretty much in the clear.

In other words, he's giving you a detention in the forest just to be a bastard.

Asshole. Cocksucker.

…and other such words that can't be spoken aloud by an eleven year old for fear of a bar of soap in the mouth.

* * *

No matter where you've gone to school – be it in Surrey with Dudders, in London with the other foster kids, or even here in Hogwarts – the last day of classes before the hols are always a wash.

Any teacher worth their salt has their classes planned in such a way to have the course load finished before a holiday.

Can't have the kids going home midway through a topic lest you wish to have the kids forget everything while they stuff their faces with biscuits and candy, no?

If that happens then the teacher needs to re-teach all the things the kiddies have forgotten, and really, who wants to do something twice? Too much work.

Much easier to be conservative in the lesson plans than to have to re-teach something.

So that brings you to today.

Everything that midget teacher of yours had planned has already been learned.

He declared this class a 'free period'.

Instead of learning magic, you're stuck sitting next to that inane redhead with his endless babbling about _Quiddich_ and _Chess_ and… food.

Actually, you quite like the discussions of food.

Sadly however, the idiot beside you is completely uncultured and uneducated about what _real_ food is.

Let's not make any mistakes here, you love bangers and mash as much as the next bloke, but as far as _he's_ concerned that's the only food that exists. That, and… blood sausages or Sheppard's pie—essentially he loves anything you can get at Hogwarts, and he doesn't have a clue as to a food's existence otherwise.

He doesn't even know what a tangerine is for Christ sakes.

That's a pretty common fruit. It's like a fucking orange. It's not rocket science, or 'spell crafting arithmancy,' to use the proper vernacular.

Ergh. Sooner you can get out of this class room the better.

Then you can get on with your life and go do something that matters like… your detention.

Hmm, how long was it this time? Ten minutes since you've last thought about it?

Fucking stupid detentions in the stupid fucking forest with the big fat oaf.

At least it's not at night. The forest is actually dangerous at night. At least, you've heard it is.

Draco seems to be convinced that there are Werewolves and man-sized spiders and stuff.

Then again, he's a sissy-boy wimp, so what does he know?

You look at the clock.

Yes! Class is over!

Get to the door… Get to the door… Get to the door…

Great, a girl dropped her bag.

Yes, you _do_ want to get to the door. No, you _don't_ care if she spilled the contents of her bag on the floor. Move stupid girl.

What is she… shit! She just splattered your left hand with ink!

Fucking Hufflepuffs.

* * *

So. This is where the school's resident giant lives.

Pretty small. Probably has to poke his feet out the windows in order to stretch his legs at night.

Quite the sight that would be.

"'Arry!" a voice shouts from directly behind you.

You turn to see the man emerging from the forest with what looks to be deer hanging over his shoulders.

Fucking… wow. Is he stupid? Yes. Is he strong? _Yes_.

He could probably snap you in half like a twig.

"Hello, Hagrid."

"Hey. Let me get this 'lil critter inside, and we ca' head back in 'der."

You watch as he disappears into his unreasonably undersized hut.

…'Lil critter? Fuck.

"O-okay." Smooth. At least he wasn't around to her you stutter.

You watch the big guy come back out.

"Ya wasn't waitin' long were ya?"

Not really no. You just got here. Oh! Make him feel guilty, and maybe he'll shorten your detention!

"Not long, only a half hour."

"Oh, tha's good then!"

Ehh… no concept of the passage of time, a clear sign of brain damage.

Moving on…

"So what are we doing for my detention?"

"Oh, I got yeh a grea' one teh-day!" He runs his hand through his ugly tangled beard. "We're goin' in the forest 'n lookin' fer a type of fern I use to loosen up meh… well, I err… use it, 'n I'm out."

Loosen up his… Shit! Eww, gross. You're looking for Hagrid's… ass-plant.

Sounds like a hoot and a half.

"That's… great. So where do we start?"

He's still fiddling with his beard. "We're goin' to the Centaur's part o' the forest. The fern only grows bes' where the— Ah there yeh are ya 'lil bugger!" He pulls out a wad of what looks like tree sap mixed with a nice handful of facial hair. "Thing's been buggin' meh all week! Anyways, it grows bes' where the centaurs ehm… do their business, if yeh know what I mean."

The legendary ass-plant that grows only where the other animals relieve themselves? This is getting better and better.

You say 'other animals' because really, could this guy ever fit in with any human population?

You picture it for a moment. Hargid walking down the street with all the muggles—eclipsing even the tallest of them by a few feet.

Nah, didn't think so.

"Sounds like a fun evening."

"It will be! 'ell, you might jus' forget your servin' a detention!" he shouts.

Forget? How will you ever forget the quest for the holy ass-plant?

* * *

You're not really an outdoorsy type of person.

There are bugs outside. Not right now, because it's winter, but just in general, there are bugs outside.

Bugs, and… twigs and cold… or heat… it never seems to be the right temperature outside. It's _cold_ at the moment.

Oh! The snow… there's a thin and splotchy blanketing across the forest floor.

It's fucking Scotland. It's hot in the summer, snowy in the winter, and raining any time else.

Only place it rains indoors is in the shower, and you have control over that.

Ergh, and the smell…

Hagrid had another neat tidbit about the fern. See, due to its "ver' useful uses," an exact quote of course, the Centaurs make use of its medicinal properties as well. Except, and here's the kicker, they are of the belief that all life has some intrinsic value — even plants! — so they are hesitant to kill a plant unless they absolutely have to.

So opposed to cutting it down like we are, they instead use this plant as a form of… toilet paper and… rub themselves against it in order to… yeah. Well, they leave it there after they're done with it.

Hagrid's full of fun little stories like this.

After you heard that one, you came up with some bullshit excuse about being allergic to ferns and let him harvest them.

He doesn't seem to mind though, in fact, he seems happier than a pig in poop.

Ah, the puns are killing you.

Speaking of puns, it has come to your attention that puns were considered the highest form of comedy some centuries ago, and given their stagnation in other fields it should be no surprise that witches and wizards have also lagged behind in modern methods of comedy.

For you, this doesn't mean much, but most of the mud—ggleborns spend half their days groaning at all the terrible jokes.

Um, what else is there to think of? You don't exactly want to _watch_ as he runs his hands over those ferns.

Of course… no gloves, that's real sanitary.

You hear a loud thumping noise and turn around to see where it's coming from.

Looks like a horse and a monkey had a secret lovechild.

Centaur then.

The clueless fool continues to work away at his task, doing so completely unaware of the beast behind him.

"Groundskeeper Rubeus Hagrid. What brings you here today?" it asks.

The man practically jumps out of his shoes. Which would be quite the achievement really.

"Merl'n, yeh gave meh a fright there Firenze!" He stands up and wipes his hands on his shirt.

Firenze eh? Beast has a name then.

"That was not my intent, friend, not at all."

"Din' think it was." He runs his dirty hands through his hair. "'ell, me 'n 'arry 'ere 're pickin' some ferns."

How could anyone _possibly_ understand what he just said? Was that even English?

"Oh yes, is it that time again?" The beast looks to the sky for a moment and stares as the clouds move along. After a good thirty seconds of silence, the beast continues, "You best get what you need for the winter, I believe that snow will soon cover this forest."

It can predict the weather? Impressive deduction skills there. It's fucking winter. It snows in winter. Brilliant.

"Good teh know, but I thin' we got wha' we need," he says as he stuffs a couple of the plants in his bag.

Wow, this detention has been far shorter than you had first thought it would be.

You and the giant pack up your things and start to walk away.

"Who is the youngling, friend?"

Shit. Right when you think you're out, they pull you right back in…

"Oh, I guess I fergot teh 'troduce yeh, huh?" He smacks you on the back with his filthy hand. "This is 'arry Potter. He's be'n helpin' meh terday." He points to the horsemoneky and says, "This is meh goo' frien' Firenze."

Seriously, who taught this guy English?

The centaur that up until now had just barely paid you any attention fixes you with a piercing stare.

It inspects you with a critical eye, and for well over a minute he looks at every facet of you.

He doesn't seem to be all that impressed with your appearance. His face was neutral at the start, but then he started to frown, and now he actually looks a little angry.

Kind of a strange way to greet someone.

"It's… _you,_" it says.

"Me?" you ask.

"You, the one, the boy with the blackest if souls; the destroyer, and the bringer of evil!"

Eh?

"…Eh?" you say. In that moment your voice may have been a little higher than it needed to be.

"Do not deny it, demon child. You walk and talk like any other human, yet every thought and every action is a perversion of what is right."

…He can predict the weather and the future? That's quite the gift.

He carries on, "The planets speak of you. The one, the child, with the scar. One hand clean, the other as black as his soul."

…Black hand? The fucking _ink_?

"The heavens show me your crimes. Mars burns red, turning the night around it into an ocean of blood. A new star, pure and barely begun to shine, snuffed out for your own amusement. Venus, raped and laid bare before you, her cries for help unanswered. The spreading darkness, you will call it your friend. Just and unjust, all sent beyond Pluto's gate by your own hand while your evil grows."

Fortune telling is shit.

"Monster, the planets have foretold your death, and I am happy to oblige."

The beast readies his bow and takes aim.

At this range that arrow will—Fuuuuuuu…

"**Enough!**" Hagrid shouts as he places himself between you and the homicidal horse, "'arry is a _good_ boy! Pu' down yer bow fer Mer'n's sake!"

However inarticulately, he is defending your honor. You should thank him for his kind words. Well, that, and for how he makes a good meat-shield.

"Step aside, Rubeus!"

"No!" He shouts stubbornly.

Good, don't step aside. You're not in the mood to die.

"Step aside you stupid half-breed! This child cannot be allowed to live!"

"Stupid half-breed… I thought tha' we were friends!" He takes a step forward. "An' who are _you_ callin' a fuckin' half-breed you fuckin'… _**horse-man**_!"

With surprising speed, the apparent 'half-breed' moves towards the thing. With equal speed you see the arrow let loose and watch it plunge itself half-way through Hagrid's arm.

Unfortunately for Firenze, Hagrid is a big, _big_, man — to say the least — and the arrow does nothing to slow him down. A moment later, the two of them are on the ground wrestling for control.

That's the moment you decide to run to the caretaker's hut as fast as physically possible, and to leave the two half-breeds to take their chunks out of each other.

* * *

The fuck did that all mean? With all that went on after, the details of his little rant seem hazy. Did he say something about you raping someone and something about killing the unjust?

So what, you rape girls then… kill rapists?

This doesn't make any sense.

…And you, rape? Really? You're pretty popular, why would you ever need to rape anyone?

His whole 'vision of the future' or whatever is utter Centaur shit. How can a planet possibly say anything?

Speaking of shit, what _is _this cake you're eating? It's as hard as a rock.

You toss it across the room only to watch it bounce off a table with enough momentum to shatter a window.

Oops.

Well, maybe next time he bakes something it shouldn't be so fucking _hard_.

The dog barks at you and sends you an angry look.

Fuck you, you stupid dog. You stare back at the dog until it looks away.

That's right, walk it off bitch.

Ergh. Now _you're_ using puns.

The front door clangs open to reveal the hulking form of your day's guide. He ducks under the door, closing and locking it behind him before he makes his way to what to anyone else would be a three person sofa, but to him is just an armchair.

You inspect him for a little while.

Aside the arrow sticking through his arm, there doesn't seem to be much wrong with him.

"So… how'd it go?" you ask.

He jumps a little and looks at you. He winces and rubs his arm.

"No' good," He says as he gives the arrow a little tug, letting out a little yelp as he does, "I always thought tha' bastard was meh friend, but now I…" He starts to cry.

Looks like he doesn't even remember the centaur's speech. All he cares about is his losing his friend.

Works for you.

You disinterestedly watch him cry for a few minutes before getting bored and standing up.

"So, um. Am I done for the day?" you ask.

He keeps sobbing, so you take that for a yes.

You unlock and open to door, but as you look out you see in the bushes an angry centaur staring at you. Needless to say, you shut the door with haste.

Shit.

Go outside, and he kills you. That's just fan-fucking-tastic.

You look at the pathetic figure on the couch. Maybe he can help?

"Hagrid, could you take me back to the castle?" You ask as you step away from the door, "Firenze is standing in the bushes…"

Instead of the response you want, he starts crying even louder at the mention of the Centaur's name.

Ah, shit. Guess you'll be here a while.

You're still pretty hungry.

"Mind if I look for something to eat in here?"

He just keeps sobbing.

Right. Hopefully he has something better than those stupid cakes.

* * *

AN: Sorry for the delay, but real life has time constraints, but I have good news. I quit one of my jobs, and as such I no longer work 60 hours a week, thus I have more time to write.

Hopefully that means that I can get back to a once a week schedule

Thanks **BrotherBludgeon**, he helped a with some wording choices in a very key area, and this chapter is better for it.

Also, I changed the summary for the story. It no longer references a Dexter or American Psycho crossover. This is mostly because as I've said before, and as my reviews love to point out, this Harry no longer resembles those characters.

I removed the Harryxmulti because it gave people the misguided hope of a harem which _will not happen_. By Harryxmulti, I meant that he would be with more than one girl over the course of the story, but not all at once.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

* * *

It's taken some doing, but you've come up with a plan.

There's no way in hell you can get the door open and sprint all the way to the school in the time it would take for him overtake you and gut you like a fish— that's of course ignoring the fact that it would take even _less_ time to simply skewer you with a well placed arrow. Nope, can't go through the front door.

You _have_ opened it a handful of times to check on him, and he is still there. Same spot for over _two hours_ now. Persistent fucker.

Hagrid is about as useful as tits on a boar in his current state. Still moaning and groaning.

But despite all this, you have a plan. It's a good plan.

The front window has a direct line of sight to the beast. Now, while you have no offensive spells, which is something that you _really_ need to get a fucking move on with, you do have something else.

A crossbow. Seems the useless sack of shit can't hold a wand right, so he hunts with a crossbow. It's a big fucking thing, much like its owner, but you're sure you can get a handle on it.

With that thought in mind, you lean down and reach underneath it. Now with a firm grip, you ready yourself. And Liiiiift!

You pull with all your might and all it gets you is a giant splinter and a pain in the ass. Literally. Note to self, stone floors are _hard_.

The _fuck_! Does this thing _need_ to be so heavy? You try again, this time attempting to drag it across the floor with all your weight and all of your muscle.

You end up on your ass once again. If you can't even drag it across the floor, how the _hell_ are you supposed to aim it through an open window? Instead of getting up, you lie down and convince yourself that it's time to give up. You give the useless hunk of wood one last fleeting glance before closing your eyes and letting out a sigh.

Well that was a waste of time.

* * *

Four hours. _Four_ hours.

That's how long it took for someone to come get you.

_Four_.

Four long hours listening to some overgrown child whine about having no friends. You get enough of that in your dorm room, thank you very much, you sure as hell don't need to hear _more._

No surprise, but the cretin doesn't have any books worth reading. Well, not unless you want to learn how to skin that deer sitting in his kitchen.

So, instead of doing something productive – like punching Longbottom in the groin repeatedly to lower his meager probability of reproduction to near non-existent levels – you've spent the bulk of your time today watching a fire burn while holding a wand at the ready for a possible centaur assault.

This is why you are so thrilled (not really) to see Albus Dumbledore at the front door.

This is the first, and most likely the _last_, time in your life that his presence is or ever will be considered a good thing in your book.

Apparently, since he hadn't seen you at dinner and he felt that your detention had run on long enough, he'd decided it was time to come get you.

That's fine, whatever gets you out the goddamned door. You close the thing behind you and get on your way.

Now, as much as you would like to just get into the castle and be done with this failure of a day, the man instead wishes to make chitchat.

"You must believe me Harry, the pudding tonight was exquisite. I daresay that the pudding tonight was the very best I've had in years."

And to think, it could have been _you_ eating that pudding if it weren't for this old man's stupid detention.

Any other day that would have mattered, but not today. Why? There's a fucking _centaur _standing in your path to the castle. An _angry_ centaur.

It's pretty clear that the Headmaster has picked up on this fact because his wand is out. "Greetings, my good centaur," he says, standing between you and the beast. Clearly, he's not on first name with the creature. "What brings you out of the forest today?"

It seems that the meat-shields are aplenty today. Now in terms of girth, this one is inferior to the last, but beggars can't be choosers. The arrival of this shield has been four hours in the making and, at this point, you'll take what you can get—sagging skin and all.

"Step aside," it says. "My quarrel is not with you."

You peek out from behind the old man and see the fiend staring back at you.

"This devil deserves none of your protection," it continues, "The heavens have already spoken of his crimes…" Pretty sure you've heard all this shit before. "Mars burns red—"

You interrupt it before you're bored to death with another protracted tirade.

"Yeah," you say, "Heard this already." You tap Dumbledore on the shoulder. "Can we just _go?_"

"Do you hear this child?" It stomps a hoof. "He cares naught but for himself!" It trots along in an arc attempting to get around the old man. Dumbledore repositions himself accordingly. The beast gives out a loud huff. "Will you listen to reason? The boy, the one with one hand as dark as the night sky—"

You decide to nip this one in the bud.

"These hands?" you say as you raise both your hands, including the formerly ink-covered appendage, "My hands are perfectly normal." There was _plenty _of time to clean your hands when you had to wait for _**four hours**_.

The human shield looks down at your hands for a moment before laughing. "They look clean to me, Harry."

"This is not a joke!" it says, for the first time in this conversation raising its voice to an actual shout. Its voice is not the only thing that rises, either. Its bow is out, and an arrow is pulled back. If he lets go and that thing flies…

It's at times like these that you are thankful for your meat-shield attracting powers.

"No, it isn't." Dumbledore says, without a trace of mirth. "Leave _now_. If you step one hoof out of your forest again centaur, I will see to it that you're put down."

It's like… feels like the temperature just dropped ten degrees.

The animal looks startled. "…What?"

"Because your kind has denied itself the right to be classified as a magical being, and has instead chosen to designate itself as a 'beast,' you have next to no rights in the eyes of the Ministry." He raises his wand, and points it directly at the centaur. "I could kill you where you stand with no repercussions, but just this one time, I will give you a chance to stand down."

This is a different man. This is not the jovial old Headmaster you know. A shiver travels down your spine, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"The others in the herd… they speak of you as just, and impartial," it says in confusion, "How can so many be so wrong?"

They're horses. They can't be _that_ smart. That explains that.

"They speak not a word of a lie." There is steel in his voice. "But _no one_ threatens my students." There is not a hint negotiation in that statement. "_**Go**_." It sounded like an angry whisper, but it was _way_ too loud, and traveled much too far judging by the echo. Magic?

There is no doubt in your mind that this man is dead serious. For a moment you honestly think that someone, or rather some_thing_, is about to die, but out of nowhere the beast lowers its bow and gallops away at a full clip.

Your protector lowers his wand and lets out a shuddering sigh. The ambient temperature returns to normal, and the hair on the back of your neck lays down flat. That tingling in your spine—that stays.

He starts walking away, but you stay stationary.

That… that was…

"Come, Harry," he says, turning and stopping his trek to the school, "I think we can still scrounge up a bowl or two of that pudding if we hurry."

And _there_ is same old man you've seen all year. If you hadn't witnessed it, you would have never imagined this frail old coot being capable of such…

"Come, Harry," he repeats.

"Yeah," you say, "Let's get some pudding."

* * *

Almost packed.

Now, all you need is a place to put this damned book and you're good to go—Ah! There's a spot. It's a wonder you got it all in there the first time, and you're not even packing everything. You don't really need a cauldron on vacation, do you?

You close the trunk and snap it in place. Done.

So you have a few minutes to prepare before you go. You put the trunk on the floor, and sit on the newly vacated space of your four poster.

This bed is so comfortable. You lie sideways on it and stretch out your arms before letting them drop off the edge of the mattress.

So it's home time. Well, if you can call it home.

You could have stayed here at 'ol Hoggy-Hogwarts for the hols, but what kind of loser would that have made you? Ron Weasley, that's who. Little moron gets to stay here all Christmas by himself, and to think—you could have joined him!

Yeah, not in this lifetime.

Neville looks downright _ecstatic_ to be going home to see his gran. You're pretty sure he wet the bed last night. Not sure if that was related or not, but it's not that far outside the realm of possibility that it could have been a random occurrence. The boy is _just that awesome,_ you know.

"Thirty minutes until the train leaves."

You lift your head and look to the doorway to see your only sane roommate, Dean. That doesn't mean you like him—he's just the only one in this dorm who's right in the head. Present company included, of course.

He ducks out of the doorway, and you take that as your cue to get up.

"Harry, can you help me pack?" the wet napkin aka, Longbottom says.

Um, no? Why would the boy ask you? Does he honestly think he's worth helping?

"Sorry Neville, but I have to help Hermione with something," you lie smoothly. Neville lets out a dejected noise. Fuck it, you might as well throw him a bone. You point to the sleeping form of Ron Weasley. "Gotta go, but I'm sure Ron can help you, right?"

And with that, you're out the door. As you make it down first step you hear a tired voice say, "Bloody hell Neville, I don't wanna help you pack."

Oh well, you tried.

* * *

Try as you might, you can't evade your slave on the way to the train, so you're forced to share a carriage with her, and not someone interesting like… eh, too lazy to come up with a mean but witty remark.

"So what are you doing for the holiday, Harry?" she asks. It would be so much easier if she didn't talk so much. You'll work on that in the years to come.

"Don't know. No real plans."

"Really?" she asks excitedly, "Want to spend the holiday with me and my parents?"

No. _God_ no. You can barely stand her presence for more than twenty minutes at a time. What would two _weeks_ be like? Christ, you might just have to kill her, but then you would have to train another workhorse, and then it won't be as good, and…

Well, you could probably brainwash Ron into being your new gopher. God knows, there isn't much up there to erase. But then you'd actually have to do your homework again, and nobody wants that—least of all you.

"Sorry Hermione," you reply, "but the family likes to keep a tight leash on me, as it were."

"Oh." She looks like a kicked puppy. You know, it's been a while since you've had a pet.

You might as well twist the knife a little bit. "Maybe if you had given some warning, but…"

"Oh! Then maybe we can convince them to let you come out for the summer?"

Shit. Painted yourself into a bit of a corner there, didn't you?

Well, now what do you say?

"For the love of Merlin! Would you two firsties just _shut up_?" What do you know? Saved by Mr. big shot Hufflepuff and his horse-faced girlfriend. After letting off steam for a moment, the guy gets back to clumsily groping his guest.

That's real appealing.

You're not sure if she's more appalled by the inappropriate behavior going on before her very eyes, or the fact that someone with an IQ lower than a rock chastised her.

Ignoring her for a moment, you look around at the scenery and see something that makes your stomach drop. In the bushes ahead is that damned centaur looking at every carriage as it passes by. He hasn't seen you. Yet.

You drop to the floor to hide yourself, and spend the rest of the ride to the station there.

* * *

"_WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA_!"

It's three hours into a six hour train ride when it hits you like a lightning bolt to the forehead… or some other metaphor that's less of a pun on your own personal disfigurement.

Even if your _Locomotor_ is less than perfect, a simple levitation charm would've gotten that big oaf's crossbow up to the window without a problem. Fuck, you could have put that bloody horse-man out of your misery for good!

Well, no point in mourning lost opportunities. What's done is done, the important thing is learning from setbacks like these. So, what _have_ you learned?

After three long months as a wizard, you're still thinking like a muggle.

Not that you're all that eager to think like a wizard as they seem to be, by all accounts, a race of idiots. Just the same, they've spent the last few millennia or so using magic to do absolutely _everything_ for them. Ergo, there must be a spell for absolutely _everything_ your little black heart could ever want.

You need to stop thinking within the limitations of your eleven-year-old body, especially where heavy lifting is concerned, and-

Oh, bum. Your outburst woke up your pet know-it-all. And now she's misinterpreted it as an invitation to give you a recap of half a year's worth of Charms class.

She's really going the right way to make you reconsider doing your own homework again, isn't she?

* * *

AN: The first part of the chapter is practically an omake, given that it's a response to one of my reviewers. Well, **SomeGuyFawkes**? You like?

It seems that people really liked the prophecy in the last chapter, but unfortunately I can't take much credit for that. My beta **BrotherBludgeon**, didn't like the one I wrote, so he took it upon himself to scold me harshly and write his own.

In retrospect, my prophecy was a tad… obvious. And we don't want that.

He also, in addition to betaing (I know, not a word) this chapter, wrote the last section dealing with the levitation charm. Thank you, brother from another mother.

And think ladies: he's single.

Actually, I'm not sure. You should probably ask him that.

-Lineape

**Edit: **He's not. My bad.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17, Part one

* * *

…**And now for something completely different.

* * *

**

"You boys have made more than your fair share of trouble these past few years," Filch says with more than a hint of smug satisfaction, scratching his cat's neck. "But I have you now."

Your brother looks distraught, but he'll pull though—This is not the first time we've been in a staff member's office late at night. Harry, on the other hand, is safe in the common room. He got away, and good for him. It's not his fault, that's for sure. He may have come up with the plan, but it wasn't the plan that got us here. A plan, no matter how detailed and well plotted, can be derailed by the most unexpected and random of details. We know this from firsthand experience.

The bastard carries on gloating, "You two are slippery, I'll give you that." He points to you and your brother. "You always seem to find a way to escape," he says with a smile, "but _now_ I know _why_."

He holds up the map. Where did he…? He must have picked it up when… Merlin, _no_!

"This. I've seen this thing before," he says, "In the hands of some troublemakers far superior to you two."

The Marauders…

He runs his fingers over the fully exposed map. "It all makes sense." He taps it a few times with a finger. "What a fool I was. All these years, I thought it was just a piece of parchment charmed to insult people," he says, "I've had this in my drawer for years, and now that I know what it does, do you know what I'm going to do with it?"

Use it himself? No. We can't suggest that.

"…Put it back in the drawer?" you say in a monotone.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" he says nastily, "You've proven to me that my security is not what it once was." He pulls something out from a coat pocket, and he opens it up with his thumb. "I put it in the drawer, and you two will snatch it right back." The thing lights on fire and he smiles. "No, Mr. and Mr. Weasley. I'm going to _burn_ it."

B-burn it?

How the hell did we get here?

* * *

**Six hours earlier

* * *

**

The week since Christmas has been exciting, to say the least. Harry, it seems, has been holding out on us these last couple months. Oh yes, the tomfoolery and monkey business is _strong_ in this one.

First day back, he comes to us with a dozen developed plans for various campaigns of mischief making. Apparently he got bored over the holiday and spent his free time coming up with one classic idea after another. He calls it, 'the week of prank.'

We never said he was great with the titles, but since then our days have been filled with turning random girls' teeth blue, making the entire Slytherin Quidditch team unusually gassy, creating a monument in a fifth floor hallway in honor of a certain part of the female anatomy, and oh so much more! As for the monument, your esteemed brother went quite literal in naming it, and titled it simply, 'the right breast of Nymphadora Tonks.' And what a wondrous breast it is. She was not impressed.

You should take this moment to point out that seventh years know some nasty spells.

In spite of the pain inflicted by that girl, it makes us just so very proud. And to think, your short-sighted brother considered dumping his arse after getting us caught with our last prank, but what a foolish move that would have been. Why, we would have missed out on all this fun! Wait, it may have been you that suggested it. Ah well, we made the right choice in the end, regardless of whichever brain hatched the idea.

This has been, without a doubt, the best week of our lives. We've had good times, no doubt there, but this last while it's been prank, prank, prank, prank, and prank. It would almost be considered exhausting if it weren't so exhilarating. Sadly, the week of prank is almost over but, in honor of the last day, Harry set us up with a full schedule, morning to night. And the grand finale is coming right up! Ah, there is the man of the hour!

"Harry, you sly devil!" you say raising your fingers above your head in the form of horns, "I was just thinking of how for you've come."

You don't get a laugh with the horns, and now you realize you look like an idiot with your hands on your head. Eh, comedy is hit and miss. You put an arm around your less handsome twin and carry on.

"Our protégé," the both of us say.

"You are—"

"Without a doubt—"

"The very best—"

"Investment—"

"We've ever made!" we chorus.

He says, "I'm glad to have been of service." He lowers his voice. "Are you two clowns ready for tonight?"

"Clowns, you say?"

"Why I never!"

He shakes his head, hiding a smile. "Right, just remember that this all goes to pot without the…" He leans in close. "You-know-what."

He really needs to stop acting all sneaky and junk. That, and his whispers are paradoxically loud. Honestly, they might even be louder than his normal speech, just breathier. Moving on.

You say, "Roger," but, "Affirmative" is what you hear coming from beside you. Erhm. We're a little out of sync today.

* * *

We've been working up to this all week. Compared to this, everything else has been a warm-up.

With our efforts combined and our cumulative magical knowledge fully tapped, as far as we're concerned, our entire repertoire is at use. Potions, charms, transfiguration, a rune (of all things), a little bit of elbow grease, and hopefully, some luck.

It's time. You grab your bag of supplies, and look to your two comrades in arms.

"We ready?" your young friend asks.

We talked about this before, your brother and you that is, and we need to make sure our little Harrikins is ready for the big leagues. Last time it didn't go so well, we need to be sure. "It's a good plan Harry," you say slowly while making eye-contact with your twin.

"But I wouldn't—"

"Hold it against you—"

"If you wanted to—

"Drop out and—"

"Leave it with us." We nod.

Harry looks at us for a moment before he shakes his head. "It's like you said." He grabs his bag. "It's a good plan," he says repeating your words, "and I can't not be a part of this." He wants to get his hands dirty, just like a true prankster.

"Plus," he adds, "I can't have you guys taking sole credit for the best prank in Hogwarts history, can I?"

Wow, 'Best prank in Hogwarts history' sure has a ring to it. "Let's do it then!" you shout. The both of us let out a whoop. "So where to, little man?"

"Where to?" he repeats, then goes into that dreadful whisper-that-is-not-a-whisper tone, "Did you bring the… you-know-what?"

Oh Harry, trying to act all cloak and dagger. You humor him and pull out the map in an exaggerated way, all sneaky-like. You open the map and say the magic words. He points to a certain spot on the map before calmly heading for the door.

"You guys ready for the history books?" he says over his shoulder, as the portrait swings open.

The history books? If we pull this off, we'll have whole _libraries_ written about us!

* * *

Shit shit shit shit _shit_!

Bollocks, what the hell just happened? Fuck, my idiot brother! HE DROPPED THE MAP! Now we're running – Merlin knows where! – through the school, trying to stay ahead of Filch and his awful-smelling cat!

How could he drop the map? It's not bloody replaceable, and he knows that just as well as you! _How_? You all turn down a corridor and keep running at a good clip with Harry and your idiot brother at your side—And he's supposed to be the smart one! He got the brain, and I got the good looks!

Your most intelligent pranking partner (hint, not your brother!) says, "I think we need to split up."

Split up? "No, if we're going to get caught, then we do it together," you say, "This is a team thing. We live together, we die together."

He looks at you like you're an alien. "Look guys, I've spent almost more time this year in detention than out, I don't think I can take any more," he says between breaths. "We split up, and we have a better chance of outrunning him."

You share a look with your brother. This is one of those twin moments where everyone assumes that you're communicating with your minds. It's weird, for some odd reason someone came up with the genius idea that we're psychics. Not hardly. Knowing this however, we've taken it upon ourselves to play up the whole twinliness aspect. We prepare a hefty amount of conversations beforehand to add to the, pardon the French, total mind-fuckery. We're not psychics, we just know each other well enough to read the other's face and get a quick read on our emotive states. A raised lip, drawn in eyebrows, a flared nostril—that kind of thing. Micro-expressions.

This is completely off topic. Your brother agrees with Harry. "Go ahead," we say.

And just like that, he's gone. He disappears down a dark hallway, but we stay together. If, Merlin forbid Filch catches us, it will be nice to have some company we're writing lines or mopping floors.

"Doesn't matter," you say after a moment

"Even without the map—"

"We know this castle—"

"Better than anyone!"

Okay, that conversation wasn't exactly planned, maybe we are psychic?

* * *

A one of a kind masterpiece. That map—how could he…?

You can feel the heat, even from here. The warmth of the flame is sharply contrasted with a cold wet feeling around your eyes. Tears dribble down your face, and with a loud pop from the fire, you simply have to look away. You turn to your brother and see him looking straight back at you. You're not the only one crying. If people knew what happened here tonight, they would cry too.

A particularly loud sob echoes though the room, and it takes a few seconds for you to realize that it came from you.

Thank Merlin Harry's not here to see this.

* * *

… **And now for something a bit less ginger.

* * *

**

You've spent the last few minutes watching those two losers cry their guts out from a keyhole. It's been quite entertaining seeing them mourn the loss of what amounts to be a piece of wrinkled parchment. A particularly loud sob makes you smile, and you start on your way back to the dorm.

Not sure of the way, you pull out the _real_ map.

Now, how did you get here?

Here's a better question: where the hell is Gryffindor tower on this damn thing? You'll reminisce about the glory of the night in the morning. Right now, you need to sleep.

* * *

AN: Next chapter will be up soon.

Once again, I need to thank **BrotherBludgeon **for betaing this for me. I feel the need to reiterate that he is in fact _not_ single. I'm sorry for the confusion. Really, I am.


End file.
